


Forsaken

by Emmithar



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Arthur Whump, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt Dutch, Hurt Hosea, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Hosea Matthews, post-Blessed Are the Peacemakers, things happen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:34:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 34
Words: 100,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27493558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmithar/pseuds/Emmithar
Summary: Every choice leads to an outcome.Every decision can affect the outcome.As Arthur soon finds out.Separated from the others after his capture and torture by Colm, Arthur finds himself consistently two steps behind the gang. Each choice pulling him down a path of his own, leaving him to discover things that were best left unknown. In the end, he has to choose for himself what he wants to do, and more importantly, who he wants to be.
Comments: 429
Kudos: 254





	1. Colm

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all!
> 
> So this is my NanoWrimo project. It's still being written, but I have a pretty good head start, so I figured I'd start posting now. It is one of my largest fics I've done, most certainly the largest for this site (seriously, we're looking at aprox 40 chapters atm) As I do have a lead, updates will be twice a week, Tuesdays and Fridays right now :) 
> 
> As it is still being written, tags may change. BUT, I hope you all enjoy. If you do enjoy, feel free to drop a comment, let me know your thoughts, esp guesses for how this fic might go because it does diverge from the normal storyline :)
> 
> Glad to have you along for the ride, and hope you enjoy!

It was cold.

One of the few things he was actually able to comprehend. He could feel the chill eating away at his fevered skin. Could feel the sweat beading on his brow; running down and soaking into his hair, all trapped by a torn burlap sack. More sweat, a fine sheen covering the rest of his body, his clothes clinging to sticky flesh. Leaving him shivering. And the smell...the cellar was rank with the tang of blood, the stench of his own filth. The heavy smell of infection. Gagging him; choking him. Breathing was already a chore, his lungs straining to draw in enough air, his chest heaving from the effort.

  
  


Being upside down surely didn't help; the blood long settled in his head. He could feel his temples throbbing, spikes of pain blossoming behind his eyes. His vision white. Forcing him to keep them closed more often than they were open. And he was drifting, in and out of cognizance, barely aware. Lost in a sea of pain. Unaware.

  
  


Until  _ he _ came. 

  
  


The light, blinding. Forcing him to blink rapidly, trying to adjust against the overwhelming flood of stimuli. He fought back a groan, desperate to get a hold of himself. To force out the facade, to pretend as though everything was alright. Trying to focus. He could barely glimpse the shadowy figure behind the light, but he knew the voice. Distinctive. Unnerving. Grating. The man chuckling as he drew near. Something cold and heavy racing through him at the mere sound. 

  
  


“Arthur Morgan. It's good to see ya.”

  
  


He shivered; fear eating away at him. He tried to not show it. Tried to shove it down as far as he possibly could. After all the shit he had been through, the last thing he wanted to do was show betray any emotion; to show weakness, a crack in his effortlessly stoic facade. To show how greatly he was suffering. It was hard; he found himself teetering on the edge of a precipice, surely ready to fall at the slightest touch. Colm would relish in it; in his destruction. In his downfall. He had known Colm for a long time, and one thing he knew was that Colm was not a kind man. 

  
  


So Arthur pushed his fears down. He chased away his rampant thoughts. Turned his focus on the present situation, somehow forcing himself ignore the radiating pain. Instead he cracked a smile, pretending to not care. He even let out a bit of a laugh, responding indifferently.

  
  


“Hello, Colm.”

  
  


They were the first words he'd spoken in a while, and his voice coming out broken, consumed just then by a series of coughs. Each one tearing away at his ribs, his muscles burning. Straining. His eyes were blurred and heavy, but he could make out the other well enough now. Watched as the man ate. The smell was nauseating; his stomach flipped, bile pooling on his tongue. Desperately swallowing, desperately trying to keep it at bay. He prayed he wouldn't get sick. He’d probably choke, and Colm would laugh as he watched him suffocate.

  
  


He blinked just then as Colm drew near, a grin marring his face.

  
  


“How’s the wound?”

  
  


The man conversing as though they were old friends just reacquainted. There was a hint of curiosity there, but he knew none of it was genuine. So despite the fiery pain and the blinding agony that seemed to stretch from the weeping crater at each minuscule shift, he lied. Covered his discomfort with a bit of chuckle, dry though it was. 

  
  


“I hardly...feel it…”

  
  


It was a weak lie. Transparent; the kind Colm no doubt saw through immediately, but it was an important lie nonetheless. Posturing. Preserving what little decency he had remaining. And little there was indeed. He knew how he must look, certainly felt as though he was half-dead, and chained up as he was there was no hope of escape for him. Hold on long enough, he liked to remind himself, and the others would find him.

  
  


“Oh, you will,” the pointed encouragement sent a shiver up his spine. “Septic, it ain't nice.”

  
  


There was truth in that statement. Even if the others came soon he knew the damage was grave. Knew the skin about the wound was swollen and oozing; a mixture of blood and pus festering and perhaps only moments away from deadly infection. The bullets, though small, had torn right through muscle and bone, and he could feel them shuffling with each move. They were lodged deep inside, and he didn't much enjoy the prospect of digging them out.

  
  


If it ever came to that.

  
  


Not that he had time to process that dark thought. He could see Colm move, the man reaching, seemingly attempting to drive his spoon straight into the gaping wound with a gleeful sound. Arthur reached up instinctively, groaning against the rising pain, his fingers dug tightly about the other's wrist, trying to push him away. Trying to will his other arm to work, to reach up. Barely managing halfway before sharp tendrils of pain raced through the abused limb, stretching across his chest; his breath hitching.

  
  


Heaving, the next moment. Spinning as the man pulled away, chuckling. Dimly, Arthur was surprised at how weak he was. Wondered to how long it had been. To him, only moments had passed, but he knew it had to be longer. After all, he had spent more time unconscious than he had been aware. Reality coming to him in brief snatches that he willfully pushed away. Unconscious was better than this. Hell, _dead_ was better than this.

  
  


It hurt to breathe.

  
  


Colm laughed as he struggled. The man clearly enjoying his predicament; and why would he not? Had he come to expect anything else of the man? Colm’s voice was nonchalant as he continued, pacing now, no longer watching him. It gave Arthur a chance to focus on his breaths, to stop pretending everything was alright, if only for just a moment.

  
  


“So tell me...fine gun like you, why you still runnin’ around with old Dutch? Could come ride with me and make real money.”

  
  


“It ain't about the money, Colm,” he explained wearily. Wasn't sure why he tried. Wasn't like the man would just change his mind. Arthur would never take the offer, and Colm would never trust him even if he entertained the idea.

  
  


“Oh no...it's Dutch's famous  _ charisma! _ ”

  
  


The last word was punctuated with a kick. Stark against his ribs. A splitting pain racing through him, wrenching a cry from his cracked lips. Tears stinging his eyes, blinked away rapidly as he desperately tried to wrest control back. He was spinning wildly now. Dizzily. Cuffs tearing into the tender flesh about his ankles, his head swaying, stomach protesting. He truly was going to be sick if Colm kept this up.

  
  


Maybe that was the goal.

  
  


“You killed a whole bunch of my boys, at Six Point Cabin.”

  
  


Colm was pacing again, mere feet in front of him. There was an edge to his voice. The man was frustrated it seemed. Unraveling. Desperate, or rapidly approaching it. Were he even slightly more coherent, the thought of a truly unhinged Colm might have unnerved him. But he couldn’t think like that; could barely focus as it was. Teeth clenched as he gasped, sputtering the denial out.

  
  


“I ain't got no clue what you talking about.”

  
  


“Oh you lie, my friend...”

  
  


He heard the gun, rather than saw. The safety pulled back. He could almost see the barrel that was lined up just inches from his face if he focused hard enough.

  
  


“And I thought Dutch preached truth,” Colm mused.

  
  


It hurt too much to try and keep focus. It was easier to just let his vision blur. Not that he was much afraid; Colm wouldn't have brought him this far to just kill him here. No...that was far too easy. Far too kind. Arthur knew, deep in the back of his mind that there were worse things in store for him. That this was only the beginning.

  
  


“Let me go, Colm,” he breathed dully, “and end all this  _ crap _ between you two...we all got real problems now.”

  
  


“The way I see it,” Colm replied, his voice low and quiet. Almost unheard. “They get him…they forget about me.”

  
  


“They ain't the forgetting sort,” his own voice was just as quiet. Nearly lost under his heavy breaths. “If I were you...I'd run as soon as I had the money.”

  
  


“Oh, I know you would...but see...” the man paused, a hand reaching out. Fingers tracing down his chest, the touch unwanted and repellent. He brought up a hand, tried to swat the nuisance away weakly as Colm continued. “We lure an angry Dutch in to rescue ya...grab all of ya and hand ya in...then disappear.”

  
  


Understanding sank in, slowly but surely. Settling deep within his gut. Terrified, for just a moment, his words dull as he speculated. “So you only met with him to grab me?”

  
  


There was a tremble in his voice, barely concealed. His thoughts racing now. He could only pray Colm hadn’t noticed his crumbling facade.

  
  


“Of course,” the pride was not missed in his words. The mirth so loud it thundered in his ears. “He's gonna be _so_ mad. He's gonna come raging over here...and a whole lot of ya, and the law'll be waiting for him.”

  
  


Arthur might been afraid before, the fear subdued but certainly there. Now it was morphing into terror. Distraught weighing him down, the panic building. Breaths heavy in his chest, heart thundering in his ears. His thoughts, spiraling. The trap so well laid; Colm clever enough for once to outsmart them all.

  
  


Because Dutch _would_ come.

  
  


The man would never let such a slight pass. He was too proud. Too vengeful. Too idiotic to see right through the trap. Would round up every gun possible, would come to confront the gang one last time. Only to run straight into death.

  
  


What had he done?

  
  


The glint of the revolver catching his attention just then, light reflecting as it was flipped in the air and caught by the muzzle. “Oh Arthur,” Colm's laugh was nauseating. “Arthur, I missed you.”

  
  


The gun driven into his side. The blow forcing him to arch, muscles contracting, seizing and protesting as the pain, white and fiery hot raced through his frame. A second blow, almost on top of the first.

  
  


A third blow, digging deep into his gut.

  
  


A fourth one, mere inches away from the last.

  
  


Leaving him sputtering. Crying. Gasping.

  
  


His one, working arm pressed against his flesh, as though it might chase the pain from his gut as the assault suddenly ceased. His lungs screaming, his body refusing to take in the much needed air. The tears, collecting in the corner of his eyes, blinked away hastily. Agony the center of his world. The light fading, damning him back to a room of darkness.

  
  


And darkness claiming him in more than one way.

* * *

The fresh air was sweet, dizzyingly intoxicating, shapes blurring in the darkness as they passed by. Half hunched over in the saddle, fingers grasping the reigns weakly. His heart, racing furiously within his chest, energy all but spent trying in vain to keep himself upright. Getting this far had been a miracle.

  
  


He had fully expected to die.

  
  


The ache heavy in his chest. Failure drowning him, knowing he was damning the others. The fate of the Van Der Linde Gang come to an end due to his foolishness. Because he had come along. Because he had been too much a fool to pay attention and keep his wits about him. Because he had let himself be taken. The thoughts heavy in his mind, drifting, barely clinging to consciousness.

  
  


Then he had seen it.

  
  


A faint glimmer of light catching his eye, reflecting off metal. The file, small enough that he thought he had been delusional. So desperately wanting a means of escape he had hallucinated. Minutes, perhaps hours, had lapsed since Colm's last visit, time all too difficult to separate. Far too drowned in pain to try and distinguish, to try and understand. His thoughts, circling around only one agenda; escape.

  
  


He couldn't let the others walk into this trap.

  
  


Couldn't let Dutch damn himself, damn the others. Couldn't let Colm win. The hopelessness of it all consuming him. He had cried more than once, reduced to a mess of tears. His throat tight, stiff and sore, a burn within his chest. His fingers had clutched about the file as though it was his salvation.

  
  


And it had been. In more than one way.

  
  


His key to freedom. The shackles breaking free.

  
  


The means of digging the bullets out.

  
  


The metal biting deep into his flesh. His shoulder a festering mess of infection, the fire burning, searing pain making him ill almost. Voices above, knowing he had to move.

  
  


Knowing he had to ignore the sharp pain that tore through him, a muted cry thrumming in his ears as he snapped the man’s neck within his hold. The knives were heavy in his hands.

  
  


How many he killed, he wasn't quiet sure. He had spent all those knives, the rest disposed of, their necks snapped haphazardly. His memory was faint, vaguely recalling where his weapons had been stored. His satchel, his guns. His horse… They kept his horse.

  
  


Dakota dancing uneasily under his feverish touch. Worse for the wear just as he was. Hefting himself into the saddle had been a chore, but he managed, and he wanted nothing more than to race out of there.

  
  


To race home.

  
  


To warn the others.

  
  


Dazed as he had been, Arthur at least held enough wit to avoid the roads. The swaying of faint lights, pinpricks against the night marking the patrols. The whistle bellowing in his ears, the train speeding by as they crossed the river. Water licking at his heels, dampening his union suit. The jarring motion of the beast beneath him jostling every wound, drawing the agony out. He gripped the reigns tighter as he hunched, fighting for his breath.

  
  


The heavy aroma of horse invading his senses, his body pitched forward. Forehead resting against coarse tangles, feeling the broken flesh under his touch. The O'Driscolls had shown neither him nor Dakota any mercy. Soft whispers of apologies spilling from his lips, a faint promise that he would look after him once they made it to safety.

  
  


Safety.

  
  


The thought raising his head. Blinking dully in the night, barely mindful of where he was. Trees towering over them, brush and rocks coating the path, making it treacherous, the mustang edging through cautiously. Familiar yet foreign. Turned around, unsure of where he was. Of where he was supposed to be going. Of what he was supposed to be doing. Clinging onto consciousness as though it were his only saving grace. 

  
  


It hurt...hurt to keep his eyes open.

  
  


To keep his head up. His shoulders burning, his back aching, everything thrumming. His fever worse now, skin feeling as though it was on fire. Everything was spinning, the entire world before him unsteady. The words weak as they slipped out. His only hope…, fingers curling in the his mane.

  
  


“Come on boy...get me home.”

  
  


Darkness. The old friend claiming him once more.


	2. Lost

Memory was a funny thing. Fleeting, teasing; lingering on the fringes of his mind. Some memories were clear; vivid and overpowering, invading his senses.

In those he could hear Colm, the man's laugh echoing in his ears, could feel the throbbing ache in his gut and a sharp burn in his chest as the gun struck him over and over again. The confession, the gloating of the trap that had been laid for the others. All of this racing through his head, drawing out a whimper.

Then there were other memories. These were kinder. Tender and gentle. He could feel a cloth pressed against his face, dabbing at his brow. Washing away the blood and sweat. Taming his fever; he could feel the sweat coating his entire body as he shivered. His head, he realized dimly, was elevated, and someone had drawn a thin blanket up to his chest.

This was not Colm's doing, he knew.

More memories. These ones harder to grasp than the last, but no less real. He could feel the burn in his shoulder, the blood on his hands. The hefty bulk beneath his legs. Dakota plodding through the woods. Wandering in circles, lost in the midst of nowhere. Felt like camp was only getting further and further away. The dizziness clouding his senses. The musty tang of earth assaulting his nose. Blood pooling on his tongue. Bile as he retched. Senses evading him. Leaving him confounded.

Had he actually gotten out? Or had that been a mere fantasy? A wanton desire so strong he yearned for it even now. A trap...the others were walking straight into a trap. Had to warn them, had to-he tried to lift his head, tried to move, a sharp wave of agony coursing through him.

What started as a whimper turned to a fit, the coughs torn from throat. Each one racing through him, the ache only increasing. Pain, white hot and sharp needling him. A voice, somewhere above him, talking. The words hard to grasp onto. Hard to understand.

Not Colm. That's all he knew.

No; the words weren't distinctive. No sharp accent punctuating the air. It didn't sound like him. But Arthur recognized it. Recognized the voice. Just couldn't place it, no matter how hard he tried. Friend or foe, he wasn't rightly sure...but they seemed to be helping. Seemed to be trying.

Noticed the cool fingers that reached under his neck, splayed across his heated flesh, lifting him. Something pressed against his cracked lips, cool water seeping into his mouth. He drank greedily; instinctually, a chill racing through him as it pooled in his stomach. Vastly stark in contrast to the fever that raged inside of him. The cup pulled away, allowed him to catch his breath, then offered again. He finished the rest. Tongue running over cracked lips, somewhat satiated. His head eased back down onto the pillows. The voice talking again. He still couldn't to latch onto them. Still couldn't understand.

Everything hurt too much. Thinking. Moving. Trying.

Sleep was easier.

Far easier. The darkness beckoning him. Inviting him in. A heavy blanket of fatigue pulling him down. But there was something on his mind; a faint piece of concern, an alarm that was ready to sound. Something he _had_ to do. What exactly, he wasn't quite sure.

His memory slipping once more. He tried, in vain, to chase it. To make some sort of sense of it. But it was slippery, like a fish wriggling clean out of his hands.

Whatever it was, it was gone.

Later, he decided...he would worry about it later.

* * *

He should have known something was up.

Hosea had known it was a bad idea the moment it had been mentioned. Colm was the last person who was willing to let bygones be bygones. After all the shit that had happened between them, all of that bad blood that coursed in their veins, a simple talk and apology would never be enough. He knew it, Dutch knew it, and yet the man had chosen to go anyway.

He should have stopped them.

He had been too tired.

Tired of all the crap Dutch had been dragging them through these past months. Tired of Micah's filth that spewed from his lips. Pestering and fouling the man's mind, enticing and edging him on. Creating havoc wherever they went. He still blamed Micah, lightly, for the whole mess in Blackwater. It was he who had stirred Dutch into a frenzy. He who had spurred the man into action. Though Dutch would never admit it; Micah's part in that mess had already been forgotten. Hands washed of it as though it was nothing more than a bit of dirt under the nails.

Hosea still didn't like the man. Figured that the less time spent engaging with him, the better off he was. So when Micah pushed the idea, Hosea had said his part, allowed his opinion to settle on deaf ears, and then busied himself with his own business. Decided to let them do whatever it was that they wanted. Let the fools damn themselves.

It wasn't any concern of his. Pretended to not care.

That was, until they had returned.

Because Arthur hadn't come back with them. A curious development, though quickly forgotten as the group of them pressed in close as the tale was rehashed. Knowing that the meeting of Colm and the potential parley affected them all. And all were curious to what had come of it. All of them expecting some grandiose tale, and sorely disappointed that it was anything but.

Dutch and Micah both proclaiming that not much had happened. They had met, had talked. Exactly what sort of talk, Dutch wasn't eager to reveal but Hosea could guess well enough. He had spent enough time around Colm to speculate precisely how the conversation went, insults and all. Micah's laugh confirming them all the more when he pressed. Dutch waved off his concerns with a shrug, stating that they had come a terse agreement, and that was that.

He refused to say more.

So Hosea had switched; had asked about Arthur instead. Unlike the others he hadn't overlooked the younger man's absence. And had he been paying closer attention, he might have seen Dutch flinch at the mere mention of his name. What he did notice though was the stutter. Dutch falling over his words as though he had been caught doing something indecent. Stammering an answer out.

“He's uh-he followed Colm out-said he was running some errands after. Debts or something-”

For a man that usually so verbose, the sudden stuttered response confounded him. The lack of flowery assurances that usually was provided by the man was enough to furrow his brow and leave a sour taste in his mouth. He had cornered Dutch, had pressed until the man snapped, shooing him off.

It did little to comfort him.

That discomfort weighed heavily in his gut, burrowing deep under his skin. Until finally it drove him to find Micah; a desperate act he never thought he’d sink to. Usually he did his best to avoid the other. Micah was far too loud and brash for his liking, but Dutch was always fond of those restless types. Saw something in him; what exactly he wasn't sure. But Hosea ignored that dislike in favor of answers. The same question, however, was met with almost the same answer. Stated that Arthur had followed them out, had gone to chase down a debt.

Micah had answered far more confidently than Dutch; almost as though it had been rehearsed. It was strange, the response baffling him.

It didn't sit right with him; none of it had.

Still, he had tried to reassure himself. After all, Arthur _was_ prone to just taking off. To disappearing. He'd saunter back into camp a few times during the week, dump his spoils on Pearson's table, and toss some trinkets in the box. If Grimshaw was quick enough she'd drag him over to the wash barrel and force himself to clean up. The man would grudgingly comply, would joke about it. He might then stay the night. Might actually partake in the stew he so dutifully kept supplied. But most of the time he spent just a few sparse hours resting, before taking off once more.

He liked the quiet.

Always had. Hosea hadn't missed how his hourly departures stretched into days as the gang grew. The more people that joined, the longer he stayed away. Once he had flat out disappeared for near a month. Charles had tracked him down then, had brought him back. The man so bedraggled he looked like vagrant, coated in scratches and bruises, a stupid grin on his face as he apologized for losing track of time. Hosea had confronted him about it. Only to get a shrug in return, the man offering up a weak smile and muttering something about having too much to do.

But Hosea knew.

Had heard him singing quietly once when they had gone out hunting, Arthur momentarily forgetting he had company. The memory bringing a smile to his face. It had calmed him, for a while. Until night came and there was still no sign of him.

Morning showing much the same. A broken promise, hanging heavily in the air. Hosea all but storming up to Dutch's tent, the man just waking. Fighting off the heavy pull of sleep. Looking abashed when Hosea pressed him.

“He's a grown man, Hosea. I am...certain...that he is doing just fine.”

The only response he got.

If Dutch wasn't willing to do anything, than he would. Silver Dollar halfway tacked by the time Charles approached him. John joining up as well. The three of them riding out in the early morning, the trio reaching the Heartlands by noon. The area was void of any signs of a struggle. His heart catching in his chest. He wasn't sure if that was a good sign or a bad one.

What he had been hoping to find, he wasn't sure. Something...anything. The lack of nothing proving to be an uneasy find. John reassuring him, backing up what Dutch and Micah had said. He felt sure that the man would return in due time. Arthur, he knew, could take care of himself.

But it sat ill with him that the man would disappear after tangling with the O'Driscolls. It wasn't that he didn't trust Arthur...rather it was Colm he couldn't expect to play fairly. But with no signs, and no trail to follow, they had turned back. Had returned to camp.

His hopes that Arthur would be there faded. Disappeared like fog chased away by the sun. No one had seen the man, even those who had gone out hunting, or running jobs. No one had crossed paths. The notion sitting ill with him. He left Silver to Kieran's discretion, making his way over towards Dutch, wanting to talk with him once more.

He had found the man in his tent, sitting with Micah, as they so often were anymore. The pair conversing, their voices low. Dutch's head bowed, the man looked...perturbed almost. Words stretched thin, amplified by a heavy sigh.

“I just...don't...know-”

“But I _do_ , boss,” Micah cut him off, his voice a bit louder. “Trust me; it's the right call. It's for the best.”

“I don't like it.”

“Now, I don't like it neither, but you said it yourself-we is out here survivin', Dutch, _fighting,_ and sometimes we gotta make sacrifices. ”

“...maybe,” he heard Dutch agree. Hosea's brow furrowed as he drew near.

“What sacrifices?”

He wanted to know. Wanted to know why Dutch suddenly looked so sheepish, the man straightening as he entered. Wanted to know why there was that same, clumsy stuttering pouring free from his mouth.

“I-uh, nothing. Just-Micah and I-we were-”

“Preparing for the future, old man,” Micah seemed so self assured, a grin on his face. “Making plans; it don't really concern you.”

“And I didn't ask you,” he hissed in return.

A bemused look crossed his face as Micah leaned back in the chair, his arms crossed over his chest. “If you are so worried, you ought to have been here to discuss things; you have a lovely ride?”

Hosea ignored that, his attention focused on Dutch. He noticed how the man refused to look him in the eye. But that rigid stance he held had faded; he looked far more like himself now than he had these past few times he had seen him

“Dutch,” Hosea bit, a harshness creeping into his tone. He had no time for games, “What the hell are you two doing?”

“We-”

“We’s just talking about them Grays, old timer,” Micah rolled his eyes, cutting in. The man waved him off casually, with a smugness that turned Hosea’s stomach, “Like I said, ain’t nothin' to do with you.”

“And what sacrifices were you referring to?”

“One of them Grays, of course,” Micah smirked, his arms folded across his chest. “Plenty of them around; take one of them, blame the Braithwaites for it. Stir the pot a little, add a little pressure. See if we can squeeze this gold outta 'em.”

He didn't like the sound of it. They were getting in too deep, digging too far. He told Dutch as much. Could only watch as the man shrugged, a tired sigh escaping him.

“It's...we'll talk about it later, Hosea. I've got other things to worry about.”

He wasn't going to get anywhere, he knew. And frankly, he didn't care about the Grays or the Braithwaites. Not at the moment. There was only one person he cared about; the one person who hadn't been accounted for yet.

“What debt was he collecting?”

“Pardon?”

That had caught his attention, the confusion marring his face. It seemed as though Dutch plain didn't know what he was asking about. Hosea scowled.

“Arthur? You said he was out collecting a debt. Which one?”

“I don't know,” the man answered tiredly. “Ask Strauss; that's his business.”

“I did.”

And he had. No sooner than he had returned. Had marched up to the man, had asked to see the ledger. Strauss had given him an odd look, his glasses drawn down to the edge of his nose as he flipped through the pages. The man shrugging after scanning them all.

“There are no debts. Arthur's already turned them all in.”

Anger now, the irritation etching creases onto his face as Dutch stood. “Hosea; there are over twenty people here; I cannot be after all of them, all of the time.”

“I ain't asking you to,” he retorted, angry in his own right. “I'm only asking you to keep after one; you know? The man you claim to be your son?”

How many times had Dutch said that? The question hanging heavily in the air, Dutch's face twisted in an awkward grimace. Something quiet said under his breath. When Hosea prodded him, asking for him to repeat what he said, the man turned. Reached out to him. A hand braced on his shoulder.

“I know you are worried-but trust me, Hosea. Everything's just fine.”

How he wanted to believe him.

Wanted to believe that this was just his paranoia that had taken over, the talons digging deep into his subconscious and gnawing away at every fiber of his being. How he wanted, more than anything, to watch as Arthur rode in. To listen to Dutch abash and tease him for worrying so. To see Arthur roll his eyes and hear his gruff voice claim he worried far too much for an old man.

And maybe he did. Maybe he did worry too much. Or perhaps, it wasn't enough.

Because everything was not fine.

As it turned out; nothing was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow you guys!
> 
> I didn't expect this big of response, esp for the first chapter! I love hearing from you all, so it really made my day reading all of what you guys shared. Honestly didn't think it would get this much excitement. Bit of an early post because I'm expecting to lose power due to an incoming storm and I wanted to get this up. So, enjoy!
> 
> At any rate....Arthur escaped Colm, but where is he? And with who? One has to wonder. And what are Dutch and Micah up to? Stirring up more trouble, no doubt. Guess we'll see what's happening in future chapters to come. Don't be afraid to drop your thoughts, let me know what you think, and I'll see you all on Tuesday! 
> 
> Happy reading!


	3. Brooks

Turned out that breathing was a chore with busted ribs.

A notion backed by pain; sharp and biting, racing through his abused his body as he moved. His chest screaming as he tried to push himself upright. It was a monumental feat with only one arm, managing just barely. His other arm, he noticed, was pinned to his chest, wrapped in heavy gauze, keeping it immobile.

Arthur felt himself swallow, his throat tight, remembering. Recalling just how ghastly that wound had been. Wondering to how it was now; someone had obviously been tending to it, but who, he couldn't rightly say. Couldn't rightly say a lot of things at the current moment. All he knew was that he felt disgustingly rank. The room he found himself in was heavy with the putrid odor of pestilence and death...and shit, he wasn't even sure _where_ he was. 

It was certainly a small room; filled only by the bed he laid in, as well as a chair that was situated in the one corner near a table. He could see sunlight streaming in through worn curtains, and if he listened close he could hear the clopping of hooves, the rattling of carts. Town, he decided. He was somewhere in town. Though which town...well he had no idea.

Arthur could barely remember what had happened, his memories crashing together like waves in a stormy sea. Thoughts like froth churned up by the agitation of waves, all of which clouded his head, and it all threatened to drown him in agony. He winced against the pain, breath locked deep in his chest, his ribs burning. Though given a moment it tamed, settling, and Arthur finally managed to swing his legs over the side of the bed.

The small effort proving too much, and he had to pause as another wave of dizziness washed over him. Given a few breaths it cleared, eyes searching the room, planning his next move. Out the door? Then what? He had no idea what lie just beyond it. But he had to try. He would deal with whatever he came across. Wasn't like he could just sit here. Arthur knew he had to get a move on. Knew he had to somehow get back to camp...shit.

He didn't even know where his horse was.

He barely even knew what the hell was happening. His mind dizzy with a tumult of thoughts that he could barely understand. His mind racing, trying to piece together some sort of recollection. Eyes drifting lazily over the room, hoping it would spark something. _Anything_. That was when he saw it. The decanter that sat on the nightstand. Filled to the brim with fresh water.

The notion striking him like an idea.

God he was thirsty. Even though Arthur felt as though he was caught within a tempest and on the verge of drowning, his throat was dry, his lips split and cracked. His thirst, overpowering. Shakily he reached out, hand clumsily pouring himself a glass, desperate gulps, drinking greedily as though he was a dying man who had just found an oasis. He was just finishing off his second glass when the door opened, and suddenly he was no longer alone.

For a moment the man stood there, watching him as though in surprise, his mouth slightly agape and his eyes wide. Arthur returned that gaze with a glare of his own. Perhaps just as surprised. The man, perhaps a hair taller than him, still looked as scrawny and feeble as he last saw him. His hairline receded, giving the appearance of a long forehead, though there was more stubble on his cheeks now than before. There a tray in his hands, a bowl perched in the center, wobbling slightly. The man was nervous, Arthur realized after a moment.

Though why wouldn't he be?

Seeing as last time they had met, the man had nearly died. And Arthur had promised him such a fate if the man dared breath a word of what he knew. Hadn't ever expected to actually cross paths again, yet here they were. Wasn't fate a funny thing?

He set the cup down. His throat like sandpaper, wincing at the soreness, his words cracking in the quiet air.

“Mr. Brooks.”

“Jimmy,” the man said quickly, an audible gulp as he sucked in air. His voice, quieter the second time. “If you don't mind...y-you can call me Jimmy.”

“Jimmy,” he nodded lightly, grimacing at the movement. The silence, awkward, growing between them. Both of them seemingly lost for words. Arthur decided to be the one to break it.

“What you got there?”

The man glanced down quickly with a puzzled expression, as though he had forgotten he was even carrying something. The tray still quivering in nervous hands. Quick, like a rabbit darting for cover in front of a hound, he moved to other end of the room. The tray sat firm on the table.

“I-uh-I brought some-something for you,” he stuttered still, words cluttered and sounds jumbled together. He waved with one hand to the bowl there. “It's just soup-nothing fancy-but I thought, well you-uh-it's been a few days and-”

“I'm mighty appreciative,” Arthur cut him off. The meaning clear. Though it left him with more questions, trying to sort them in his head. To figure out not only what to ask, but how. Finally he settled on perhaps the most basic question.

“You mind telling me where I am?”

“Strawberry,” he answered, nodding towards him. “I...uh-I found you-well, your horse, I think. Big ol' mustang? He was just off the road, a few miles south of Riggs. And you were-well, you weren't looking too good, mister. And you-you saved my life once, and I haven't ever forgotten. I-I wasn't just going to leave you. So I done took you here, and the doctor-he uh, he looked you over, patched you back up. You've been sleeping these past days, mister, and I-well I'm no doctor, but I've been trying my best.”

“Arthur,” he muttered, processing what had been said. So the illusions of him escaping Colm hadn't been a fallacy. He had taken Dakota south, had been trying to get back to Clemens. Seems as though he hadn't made it that far.

“Pardon?”

He glanced up at the question, momentarily confused. Until he realized. He cleared his throat, repeating himself.

“Arthur. You can call me Arthur.”

“I thought you said it was better if I didn't know your name...” Jimmy said quietly. The worry evident in his voice. If he didn't feel moments from death, Arthur would have found it in himself to laugh. The memory of the threat faint, but surfacing as he chased after it.

“Yeah, well, I doubt that you have any intentions of turning me in, seeing as you gone through all this trouble of keeping me alive. Guess I owe you; for your kindness.”

“Oh no,” he shook his head quickly, his whole frame quivering almost. “I won't-I ain't gonna say a word. You don't have to worry about that-you're a good man, you know. You saved my life, and well-guess I'm happy to help out where I can.”

Whether or not he was a good man was debatable. One he wasn't too keen on engaging in at the moment. It was already difficult enough to stay upright, to get the words to come. He hadn't even moved from the bed and already he felt worn. Exhaustion pulling at him, beckoning him to lie down and sleep. If only for a little longer. But there was stuff to do, things that needed to be done.

Days had slipped by. Days in which the others were surely looking for him. Dutch, no doubt, would have sent the troops out looking for him that same night he failed to come back. He would have figured out by then that something was wrong. Colm had had him well hidden, though. After all, couldn't risk being found out before everything was ready.

Arthur's escape had foiled that. Had thrown all of into chaos. No longer would Colm have any bait to lure them into the waiting jaws of a trap. But they wouldn't have known that. His absences, his departure, might have been enough to lure them in anyway. If anyone fell to harm because of him, Arthur wasn't sure he could rightly forgive himself. He had to leave. Had to get back. Had to know...

He pushed himself to his feet.

Only to fall in the next moment.

Would have hit the ground if it was not for Jimmy. As nervous as he was, the man sure moved fast. Arthur let out a groan as hands wrapped around his good arm, another braced against his chest, maneuvering him back on the bed. There was a slight apprehension in his voice as the man admonished him.

“You take it easy there,” Jimmy told him uneasily, hands drawing back suddenly as though afraid to touch him. “Doctor said you weren't in too good of shape. And you-well you've just gotten up.”

“I appreciate the concern, but I think it's best for the both of us if I left,” Arthur ground out wearily, breath hitching in his tender chest.

“But you-you really shouldn't be up and walking; let alone riding.”

True as it was, he didn't much like it. He let out a sigh, a hand running over his face. It was then Arthur could feel how hollow his cheeks were, his fingers combing over the scruff of his unkempt beard. It left him dazed, wondering briefly to exactly how much time had elapsed.

“How...how long have I been here?”

“About a week,” Jimmy answered, “You were-uh, not doing too well at first. Doctor didn't think you were going to pull through that first night. Your fever was pretty bad.”

A god damn week...shit. Surely by now one of two things had happened. Either the others had fallen into the trap, or they had written him off as dead. Arthur wasn't sure which was worse. The realization gutting him.

Either they were all dead, or they had all moved on, figuring him long gone. Had they forgotten about him?

His eyes stung, heavy with unshod tears. Hastily he rubbed them, pretending to be tired instead. Not willing to let himself break. Not like this. Not here. Trying to pull himself together. There was nothing to it. Nothing he could do at this given moment.

Because Jimmy had a point.

He _could_ leave here. Leave now; take Dakota and race south, back to Clemens. Yet what would it change?

Couldn't bring people back from the dead. And if they weren't, well...then him trying to kill himself getting back would do no one any favors.

Because honestly, how far _would_ he make it? And if he ran into trouble on the way there, what then? One fuckin' arm, a chest full of busted ribs-he could barely keep his focus as it was. Could he even ride?

Sitting hurt...standing had been outright unbearable. He might be able to make it. Might be able to pull himself up into the saddle, but surely the pain of everything would overwhelm him, and he would be strewn along the road once more, at the mercy of anyone.

And he doubted the next person to find him would be as kind.

“You can stay here,” Jimmy broke his thoughts. He still stood, watching him from a distance. “My aunt-she's gone down to Blackwater for the season, so you don't hafta worry about her.”

He felt himself chuckle at that, a thin thread of humor in his words. As though his aunt was the one person he had be worried about. Still, it chased away a bit of the dread that had been building. Brought him back down to reality. Arthur ran a tongue over his cracked lips, clearing his throat.

“You said Strawberry?”

Jimmy nodded and he felt the apprehension ease even more. There were several places he could have ended up, each one unfavorable, and Arthur supposed it was a stroke of luck that out of everywhere, the man had chosen to take him here.

True, he had caused trouble here, a time back. Micah, the damn fool had started it all. Causing a stir in the tavern, getting himself thrown in jail. Shooting half the goddamn town up in effort to get his guns back.

It had been several long weeks before he ventured back through. Terse apprehension resting in his mind, the possibility of being recognized a truth he couldn't deny. But no one had. His business accepted amicably, the newly appointed sheriff none-the-wiser of his status, all too delighted with the bounties he had brought it.

No...Strawberry was the one place he hadn't fucked up in. Not truly. A tiny bit of normalcy in all the chaos they seemed locked in.

“Why don't we-uh, we should get you something to eat-I brought soup,” Jimmy waved over the table, breaking his thoughts once more. “You might feel better?”

Arthur wasn't sure if he was up for eating. An uneasy pit centered directly in his gut as though he had swallowed a bunch of rocks. But he was never one to turn away the kindness of others, and so he found himself nodding.

It took a few tries, as well as some help, to make his way over the table in the corner. Each step slow, edged by pain. Legs seemingly unfamiliar with how to walk, his entire body drained. The spoon, heavy in his hand as he supped, eating slow.

It was nothing special; definitely not the same robust stew crafted by Pearson, nor was it as fancy as the meals taken in a the saloons. Rather a bland and watered down broth with a few limp vegetables and some bits of meat. What, he couldn't be sure; maybe not even meat given how damn chewy it was.

“I'm afraid I'm not much of a cook,” Jimmy confessed. The man must have seen a look on his face and felt the need to explain. “My aunt, she's a wonder. You know she was worried that I was gonna starve when she left?”

“It's a valid concern,” Arthur muttered dryly before he could stop himself. Went to apologize, but Jimmy chuckled nervously before he could. He had calmed down some; wasn't so tense. Was no longer acting like he might bolt at the slightest move he made. The stiff, rigidity had lapsed in his shoulders, the man seated on the edge of the bed, watching him. Fingers laced together.

“Told her I'd be fine and well-I know I-I ain't doing great, but I don't want her to worry, you know?”

He knew. Knew because he had similar worries on his mind. The concern still there, still heavy over head like a storm cloud. Thoughts that were dark and ugly, threatening to unleash a torrent upon him. If the others were still alive, then they needed to know. But it would be days, he knew, before he would be strong enough to make that journey.

He could still feel the fever on his skin, the ache that thrummed deep down into his bones. The weariness that threatened to draw him back into what felt like never ending sleep. And he reasoned, somewhere far in the depths of his mind, that a few more days would change nothing. If they thought him dead already, what difference did it make if he went back today, tomorrow, or even a few days from now?

It would change _nothing._

But, there was something else he could do. The thought hitting him suddenly.

His eyes snapped up to where the man sat, watching him move uneasily to his feet. “I need to post a letter,” the words tumbled out. “I-you think you could help with that?”

“Sure,” Jimmy nodded eagerly, almost as though he was relieved it was that and not something else. “Anything-of course. Let's uh...the doctor's gonna be by soon, to change your bandages. He uh-I think he'll be happy to see you up. Surprised, at least.”

He wasn't so sure what to think of that revelation. Mostly because Arthur didn't remember any of it. Of being found, of being tended to, of being looked after by a complete stranger. Jimmy, he had to admit, had saved his life. The realization sitting odd with him, and he forced out that humble thanks in return, admitting he had no way to repay him. He was further surprised when the man laughed.

“Repay me? You saved my life, Arthur. Think of this as my way of thanking you. I mean...guess this is better than a pen, isn't it?”

To that he laughed. Yes...it was better than a pen. No matter how fancy it had been.

* * *

He had managed to stay awake until the doctor came. He was a funny looking man, short and bit rotund, sporting bushy eyebrows and a wiry beard. And he was all business. Didn't bother asking how he was, had only given a gruff sigh as he sat Arthur down on the bed. Then he set about removing the soiled bandages.

It was just the two of them now; Jimmy had stepped out, had gone off to post his letter he had scratched. He kept it as vague as he could, simply noting that he had been waylaid, that he was alright and recovering with an acquaintance. Just enough to let the others know he was _alive_ , but simple enough that if intercepted no one would be none the wiser. It would be sent off to Rhodes, addressed to their alias. He hoped it was enough. Hope that someone would be alive to read it.

God he wanted to sleep.

But not yet; the doctor pulling free the last bit of cloth. If Arthur had thought the smell bad before, it was perhaps ten times as worse now. His nose crinkling in disgust as he turned his head away, nearly getting sick. The doctor didn't seem as bothered, dumping the ruined cloth on the floor and dunking a sponge in bucket of water, dabbing at the tender skin.

It hurt.

There was still a crater in his skin, the edges red and inflamed, a bit of pus that drained from the very center. A sharp stab as the doctor wiped at it hastily, a curse drawn from his lips. A rehearsed apology falling from the man's lips, lacking compassion as he spread an ointment over the area.

“Count yourself lucky you didn't lose the arm,” the doctor told him gruffly. “It was my first recommendation when Mr. Brooks brought you in, but he was adamant against it.”

“I'll be sure to thank him then,” Arthur ground out against the pain. His entire arm felt weak, heavy. He was barely able to move it. A further wince as doctor wrapped his shoulder once more. This time, just the shoulder, leaving most his arm free.

“Nasty wound for sure; What from, if you don't mind me asking?”

He did mind, his patience thin with the man. The doctor might have saved his life, might have spared his arm, but his disposition was less than favorable. And he didn't know him. Didn't trust him. His office empty on more than one trip through here, occupants complaining the man spent most of his time fishing. Too busy to offer any proper care. And the care he was offering was primitive at best.

“Bounty gone bad, is all,” he hissed as the sling was forced over his head. The ache in his shoulder worse than before, pounding in protest as the harsh handling.

It was the same story he had shared with Jimmy. The man had been curious, understandably. Had danced around the question for a while before Arthur finally came up with the lie.

He was no fool; Arthur knew that Jimmy recognized him. Had recognized him that day in Valentine. Had taken off, intent on selling him out. Of turning him in. They had held a bit of a chat, Arthur had given him a bit of a threat, feeling that day a small amount of restraint and not killing him like the whispers in his mind had encouraged.

And despite all of that, the man had gone and taken him in, had taken care of him despite knowing everything. Maybe he was a fool.

A fool, but not a threat. Still didn't make him a friend. The less he shared, the better off they would be, and he wasn't one to share more personal happenings anyway. Didn't even share with those he considered family. Plus he was known here; the sheriff more than acquainted with his dealings. If word got around, if anyone asked, his lie would be backed up. It was an easy lie to say.

Easy, maybe. But not entirely believable as he found out. A speckle of distrust in the doctor's eyes. But he didn't say anything. Didn't challenge him. Simply packed his things, the gruffness in his voice as he made his way out the door.

“Don't use it unless you want to lose it, you understand?”

The last part said about his arm, the limb heavy against his chest. Arthur reached up with his free hand, fingers working into the tender tissue. Wincing at the contact. But pain, he reasoned, was good. Meant he could still feel. Hoped, with time, that ache would die down. That everything would be just fine.

After all, he had gotten away from Colm. He was still alive. And the others...he was almost sure they were alright. Had to be...Arthur had spied the newspaper on the table earlier. Had skimmed the headlines, had noticed a blurb about horse thefts down south. But nothing else.

There had been no whispers of the Van der Linde Gang.

Had Colm's trap worked, then it would have been announced on every page. The capture of the infamous outlaw was not a piece of news easily glossed over. So, he reasoned, that the lack of news was reassuring. Had to be...he wasn't ready to accept the alternative.

Arthur let out a breath, the exhaustion hitting him hard just then.

He needed to rest. His mind racing still, too weary to try and keep up with all his thoughts. The overwhelming emotions. Carefully he lay himself down, his arm throbbing against his chest. His entire body, heavy. Aching.

It didn't take long for sleep to take him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tuesday!
> 
> So we continue. Arthur's in somewhat good hands. I don't know about all of you, but I found it odd that Jimmy never really made a reappearance if you chose to let him live. I know he has a voice-over, but I expected something more, for good or bad, honestly. 
> 
> At any rate, what are your thoughts? Surprised to see him? What is the gang thinking by now? Lots to think of yet, but I'll see you all on Friday! :)


	4. Clemens Point

A storm had moved in overnight. The rain waking him in the early morning. The thunder deep and low, rattling the lone window. He lay there in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling as his thoughts raced. There would be no more sleep for him; not tonight anyway.

It had been two weeks.

Two weeks since he had first waken. Two weeks past since he had wanted to leave. He had spent those first days trapped in a feverish haze that left him none the wiser. The following ones spent just trying to get to his feet on his own. To hold his own. It was a maddeningly slow pace that left him frustrated, left him fighting to hold back his anger. Each day passing leaving him a little more desperate. Wanting to do more, and unable to muster the strength to follow through. Exhaustion wrought deep down to the marrow of his bones.

He _was_ doing better. A truth that no one could deny, healing under the tedious care of both Jimmy and the doctor. Each day a little stronger. Each day a little better. Gone were most of his aches and pains, his ribs healing, his fever abating. Even the fiery throb in his shoulder had dulled, the wound healing slower than the rest of him, leaving a vivid scar in its wake. The damage, the days of not using it had left the limb weak and stiff; tender. A tenderness that he was usually able to work out during the span of the day as he stretched and forced the limb to move. It was no different today. Grimacing as his fingers worked into the flesh, trying to drive away the pain.

Jimmy had helped.

The oddity of it all ironic; a man he had almost silenced of all those months ago now his salvation. The man had settled, was no longer as flighty and nervous as he had first been. The two of them coming to a mutual understanding. Jimmy was no threat to him, and Arthur returned that favor. And if Arthur was being honest, he sort of liked the man.

He was easy to talk to. To talk with, though they never discussed anything of importance. Arthur was careful about what he shared, all too familiar with the fact that Jimmy had a vague idea of who he was, and what his past held. Jimmy, however, was more open, having no qualms on sharing everything.

Arthur learned that the man was originally from Tumbleweed, his parents both gone, buried somewhere out in the desert. He had gone north, to Blackwater to stay with his sister. Then to Strawberry to stay with his aunt. He had a brother in Valentine, had been visiting him when they had first crossed paths. His brother now dead, a result of the massacre that had taken place when Cornwall had invaded the town.

Arthur never mentioned he was involved in that.

Figured it was best to leave that detail unannounced. There was nothing favorable that could come from it, and Arthur was no fool. He knew that he couldn't change the past. So he said nothing. Opting to merely listen instead as the man continued.

Jimmy was a drifter, it seemed. Unhappy wherever he went, but seemingly finding some sort of routine here in Strawberry. Had found some work down south at Riggs Station, and would often disappear come the afternoon to tend to work, returning sometime in the early morning.

Arthur used that time to his advantage. Writing in his journal. Walking the streets, building his strength back up. He checked the post daily for any chance at mail, but never found any. He even wandered down to the stables where Dakota had been boarded. The mustang fairing better than he was, despite the scars that blemished his flesh. The owner there ensuring the horse was well looked after. Jimmy had seen to that, had paid extra, apparently, for the detailed care.

The man never accepted his thanks. Always told Arthur that they were even. Before launching into yet more tales about his misadventures. They helped to pass the time. Pass the days.

Arthur longed to be on the road again. Longed to be back with the others. He figured they were doing well enough; he had made a habit each morning to check the paper, skimming the articles for any mention of Dutch or Hosea. Even Colm. But there was nothing. The papers as mundane as this blasted town was.
    
    
    He wanted to leave. 
    Hell, he’d had had a dozen chances to go, a dozen reasons to slip out during the night and leave Jimmy none the wiser. He couldn’t, though. Or wouldn’t; Arthur simply owed the man too much to disappear like that.

Not only that, but he figured that heading back to camp battered and bruised would help no one. So he stayed, had given himself enough time to recover under the studious care of the doctor. The man finally deeming him well enough to finish care on his own. And finally, Arthur had breached the subject just the night before. The confession of his departure drawing silence from the other. Jimmy quiet for a stretch of time.

Seemed like he had enjoyed Arthur's company as much as Arthur had him. Surely the man hadn't expected him to stay forever, but there was longing there. The realization that he was lonely. Seeing in him the same gaze he had seen in others. And the offer was on his lips, Arthur biting his tongue to keep it from coming forth.

Because he would never last.

Life in the gang was hard. He doubted Jimmy had ever handled a gun, let alone knew how to use one. The man couldn't hunt, couldn't skin. Hell, he would probably pale at just seeing the others, let alone keep himself together if Arthur brought him along. Not only did he doubt the man's ability to assist in a robbery, but the fool would probably race straight to the nearest law and turn them in once it was all said and done.

No...he liked Jimmy. But the man was not cut out for that. So he had kept the offer to himself, had gone to bed on a sour note. The morning proving to be just as dour. The skies, gray and heavy with clouds, a torrent of rain soaking the earth below. It delayed his plans; he had but a single set of clothes provided to him and Arthur wasn't keen on soaking them through. It would take him the better part of the day to reach Clemens, and he'd rather not spend it soaking wet.

So they sat, the morning stretching into the afternoon, the skies still dreary as the rain continued. They carried on a conversation as they had these past days. The earthy scent of smoke wafting around them as he took a drag, the cigarette held lightly between his fingers.

“She keeps trying to hook me up with her friend,” the man went on, hunched over in his own chair, watching the road. “I've told her no at least a hundred times, but she wants me to marry, you know? I get it, I mean, she just wants the best for me, but I-I don't know how to tell her that I'm not interested. When I marry, I want it to be with someone I care about; how do I tell that without her going off on me?”

“Look-I ain't really the best person to be asking,” Arthur admitted, knocking the ash off the end, “relationships...we'll, they've never really been my thing.”

That was putting it lightly. The failed endeavor with Mary ever present on his mind, even more so that she had recently come back into his life. A confusion pulling at him, beckoning to follow. A temptation he had only just turned away. And not just her...there was also that mess with Eliza. With his son. He had lost all desire of having a family after that, the pain still far to fresh whenever he happened to think of Issac. The boy buried with his mother; two graves he hadn't visited in many years.

“I'm sorry,” Jimmy apologized quickly. The man liked to do that, liked to apologize for every blasted thing. Like he had somehow wronged the world and was simply waiting to be kicked. Arthur liked the man, he did, but all of that was growing tiresome. He let out a breath, sitting up.

“Look-you just tell her that you got your own plans, is all.”

“But she's gonna cut me out of the will,” he protested.

“So?” he shrugged his shoulders. “Go off and make your own fortune then. Smart guy like you? Well, I bet there's lots of opportunities out there for ya.”

There was grunt as a reply. Arthur wasn't sure how to respond to that. His gaze staring out ahead, lost in thought. That, he knew, was easier said than done. He knew that perhaps better than anyone, with all years spent trying to get ahead. Lately they hadn't had much luck; he hoped the others were doing okay without him. Knew there was only one way to find out.

With a sigh he stubbed out the cigarette, running a hand over his face.

His beard had been trimmed back to stubble, and the hollowness of his cheeks filling back in. Considering he had been dead nearly a few weeks back, he felt pretty decent. Considered it a damn near miracle he was almost healed. Now he just needed to get back home. He noticed the rain tapering off, the skies a lighter gray than previously. If he was going to go, now would be the best time.

“I just want to thank you, again, for everything you've done,” he nodded towards the other man, breaking that uneasy silence between them. He was eager to be on the road. Meager provisions packed the night before, Dakota fetched from the stables and readied. The mustang stood at the end of the road, tacked up and ready.

“You got family?”

The question surprised him. They had talked quite a bit these past weeks. Or rather, Jimmy had, the man determined to fill in the silence. Arthur could recite perhaps his entire life from birth, all of his successes, all of his failures. The man far more eager to share than Arthur ever would be. Sure, the man had asked him questions, all feeble and bland ones. Never about his affiliation with the others. Never about Blackwater. Never about his...profession.

This, perhaps, was the boldest the man had been. Arthur cleared his throat.

“Something like that.”

“They the folks you was with? Back in Valentine? The one you sent the letter to?”

He found himself nodding. This he knew, was no interrogation. Just simple curiosity. Jimmy had ample opportunity to turn him in, and had chosen not to. Doubtful he'd start now, but just the same, Arthur found himself reluctant to share. A small piece of himself he wanted to keep hidden, but he felt as though he had to say something. Arthur adjusted the hat on his head, fumbling with words. Trying to think of the best way to describe it.

“We all kind of found each other; we uh-help each other out and keep each other safe, I guess. I'm sure they're missing me, and well, to be honest, I sure am missing them.”

“You could send another letter. Have them come up here? I'm sure my aunt wont mind a few more guests.”

The offer generous, and he found himself laughing. Trying to imagine the whole lot of them, pressed inside the one small house. Their horses all lined up and down the streets. What a sight it would be; and he had a feeling that Jimmy's aunt _would_ mind, despite his insistence. 

“Mighty kind of you; but I don't think it's quite that easy.”

Goodbyes were always tough. Arthur was never a fan of them, and part of him felt bad. The man had taken him in, had saved his life, and Arthur was all but turning his back on him, felt like. Jimmy had gotten far too reliant on him in this short time. The disappointment in his face obvious as Arthur moved to his feet, prompting him to say something.

“Look...I come up this way every so often to go hunting,” he encouraged him, “if you're around, I'll stop by.”

The promise there. Enough to draw a smile out of the other. Jimmy moving to his feet as well, offering a hand. The last time he had refused to shake; this time he didn't hesitate. He bid his farewell one final time, his head hunched down as he stepped out into muddied street. The cool breeze biting at his skin.

He hated to leave. But he wanted to go home.

Dakota seemed just as eager aslo. Far too much energy from being pent up these past few weeks. Taking off with the slightest prod, cantering down the sodden road. They passed under the archway that welcomed visitors to the town, Arthur running a hand along his flank, giving him quiet praise. With a low command, they opened up into a run.

They were heading home.

* * *

They hadn't stopped. Not even when night came.

The clouds had cleared off to reveal a star-riddled sky. The constellations shining brilliantly above them. They were making good time. Dakota plodding along now, having slowed as his flanks started heaving, Arthur stroking his smoke-colored hide. He slipped him an apple, praising him for his efforts. Promising more of the same when they reached home.

Home...they were so close now.

He could tell because he knew the area. Could see how the road beneath them changed, turning from mud and fading to dirt, which slowly became dust. The drought here still ongoing despite the torrential downpour that he had woken to that morning. They would be there within the hour, he mused. The smile creased his face, a fluttering in his chest.

He had spent days figuring on what their reaction would be. Surely they had found the letter. Arthur figured it would have been enough to calm them. Enough so that they wouldn't make _too_ much of a fuss.

Still, he figured they'd be overjoyed, no doubt. Open arms beckoning him in. Drinks shared around the fire, songs splitting the air as they welcomed back a lost brother, a lost son. He longed to see Dutch, to see Hosea. To sup on Pearson's stew, and perhaps indulge in a game of dominoes with Tilly, and ultimately fall asleep in his own bed surrounded by familiar faces. Hell, he'd even take Grimshaw's fussing, something she no doubt would do seeing as he hadn't changed clothes in over a week.

And Dutch...well, he would have to have a talk with Dutch. That smile fading into a grimace. The parlay with Colm nothing more than trap. He wasn't sure what Dutch had figured out, but the man needed to know the truth. Had to understand, so that the next time he figured on doing something this stupid, he'd reconsider. At least now they knew for certain that Colm couldn't be trusted. If they had any sense they'd track the man down, finish him off. But Arthur wasn't sure if they could afford revenge.

Dutch, he suspected, would want it anyway. Once he learned of the truth.

He had been slighted far too many times to let this grievance go. Arthur's return would only bolster it. Dutch ever more sure that they could follow through, put an end to things. And part of Arthur agreed...but another part of him stilled. His gut heavy with the thought, knowing that Colm was not one to be messed with.

The man was almost completely unhinged, gone crazy if he thought the law could so easily be bartered with. Not to mention that they had other problems to worry about. Taking care of their own being the first among many. The mess with Cornwall, the goddamn raiders lurking on the fringes of their sanity. No...Colm was the least of their problems. He could only hope that Dutch would understand that.

The thought grim as he he turned Dakota down the path. Brooding thoughts chased away, replaced by something sweeter. A warmth in his chest as Dakota slowed to a gentle canter. His eyes searching for the warm glow of the fires. His ears straining for the challenge of the sentry. He hoped, vaguely, that it would be John. Wanted to see the surprise etched on his face as he rode it. To reveal in the mirth of the fact he had, more or less, returned from the dead.

But there was no challenge.

There were no fires.

The forest around him quiet as he rode in, drawing Dakota to a stop. There was a soft bit of denial welling inside of him as he searched the area, thoroughly dumbfounded. He couldn't think. Wasn't able to bring one single rational thought to the forefront of his mind.

Because Clemens Point was empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah....
> 
> So he made it back, but they've already moved on. To where, is the question. Of course we all know, but Arthur doesn't, and he's the one that matters. Poor guy, was looking so forward to being back with them all. And he's still on his own...
> 
> So what happens now? Leave your thoughts, and we'll see who's right come Tuesday! See you then!


	5. Rhodes

Disbelief had consumed him.

Shock gripping him tight, icy tendrils freezing him fast to one spot; stealing his breath. His limbs heavy, the inability to move, the disbelief overwhelming. Minutes passed, hours perhaps, as he stared over the place that had once used to be home, now empty; abandoned. Forsaken.

It didn’t seem possible. But it was. Reality crashing down on him in one fell swoop. Felt himself falling apart. Shaking, sweating-cursing. The denial racing through him. Followed quickly by a mental rebuff.

He needed to pull himself together. Somehow he managed to take a few breaths, running his fingers through his hair as he pulled off his hat. Thinking. Trying to grab hold of an idea. _Any idea_. Of what to do. Of what needed to be done.

Slowly he slid himself from the saddle, wandering aimlessly over the deserted area. Eyeing the flattened patches of dead grass left from the wagons, the blackened pits of where the fires had been. Still didn't seem real.

The embers long cold, suggesting it was, at best, days old. The wood charred, breaking underneath his boot as he kicked it aside. A collection of tins and waste sat to one side, all clustered in a pile. Fabric, torn and half-mended left forgotten over tree limbs, billowing in the gentle breeze. Abandoned in favor of quick departure, it seemed. Arthur sat himself down on a log, his hands clasped, fingers entwined as he stared across the lake, the soft reflection of the moon bouncing off the surface.

What was he supposed to do now?

The question hanging over his head. Invading his mind. Pestering him. A question he didn’t have an answer for. Up until now his only thought had been to get home. But home was no long here. And he had no idea of where they might be, or if they were even okay. Or where to even start. The realization subduing. Thoughts he didn't quite like clouding his mind. He forced himself to move. To work; his body moving on its own accord, motions practiced and long ingrained in his limbs.

It didn’t take him long to collect some wood, the fire coaxed back to life. The flames chasing away the darkness as he sat near. His stomach empty, growling, a reminder he hadn't eaten since that morning. He supped on a simple ration of peas and salted beef, his stomach longing for a hearty bowl of stew and realizing that it was still nothing more than a tantalizing dream.

As was the longing for company.

As much as they could annoy him, and heavens know that they were damn good at that, he missed them. Despite their tendencies to draw his ire and to wear down his patience to a nub, there was something soothing about being surrounded by the constant hum of activity that filled their camps. A din that was now silent, and their disappearance sat wrong with him. The worry for them growing. No matter how he tried to tamper his thoughts, they raced, tumbling over one another as he stared out into the darkness. Wondering to what had happened. To why they had taken off. To where they had gone. Questions he didn't have answers for.

He tossed another log in the fire. Watching the sparks fly and dissipate into the night.

His first thought had been Colm. That his trap had been successful. That Dutch and the others had come in, guns blazing, only to find him not there. Because he had gotten out. Because he hadn't made it back. Because he had stayed for far too long up north.

He should have come sooner. Should have damned all niceties and simply left during the night. He could have been here then. Could have done something. Could have...he wasn't sure what he could have done.

His thoughts morphing. Changing. Because he was starting to doubt that it was Colm. It didn't make sense. If the others fell into the trap, he would have known. The news shouted from every rooftop and pictures gracing the pages of every paper. Papers that he had carefully read and cataloged, making mental notes. All of which had been blasé.

So surely it wasn't Colm. Unless the man, irate at Arthur's escape, had stormed the camp instead. But no..how would the man even know where their camp was? Arthur had said _nothing._ And if Colm already knew where they were...then there was no reason for the elaborate set up. No reason for the attempted parlay. No reason to trap him, to torture him, to use him as bait. No...it couldn't have been Colm.

But if not Colm, then who or what had scattered them?

All that remained were broken remnants, supplies that could easily be replaced. There had been some hay left behind, half rotten from time. He had gone through it, salvaged what he could, scattering the leavings for Dakota to sup on. He had also found a small pile of wood, stuff which he already had burned. As well as a bundle of herbs, forgotten-left in the same area that Hosea slept in. All of it had been dried and ready to use. A simple oversight, he was sure, but Arthur pocketed it, knowing it might come in handy seeing as his own pockets were nearly bare.

They were clues; subtle ones, but there none-the-less. These minute details led him to believe the group had moved in haste. But they gave no indication of where they were headed. Too many tracks led out of here, and soon would be lost on the road, intermixed with all the other travelers come this way. Not only that, but Arthur hadn't a clue of what Dutch's next plans were; had honestly been surprised to see the man come this far south to begin with. The idea there, presenting itself, leaving him speculating that maybe the group had pushed back north.

It was disheartening.

The Heartlands were vast. New Hanover even more so. There were a thousand places they could have gone. Tucked away into any corner, sheltered by any cluster of trees, wedged underneath any rock face. It would be nothing short of a miracle to find them. The thought discouraging. He pulled his hat off, fingers working through his hair in frustration. Trying, in vain, to grasp onto any thought. Any idea.

He _should_ have come back sooner.

Maybe he would have been in time. Maybe he would have caught them. He would still been fevered. Still been injured. But he would have been with them. He would have been okay.

He would _still_ be okay.

A sharp reprimand echoing his his head. Arthur let out a breath, setting his hat back on his head. That determination resting inside of him.

He was always a fighter. Never was there a challenge that turned him away. Never had he been dissuaded, no matter how futile and idiotic it seemed. He always pushed. Would always keep pushing. The same would happen here. A new resolution building inside of him. He _would_ find them. He'd stay here the night; he reasoned. Wait until it was light, push off in the morning. He'd pick a direction and start chasing down leads. 

Someone had to see  _something_ . Someone had to know _something_ . Those thoughts lingering, like a sweet aroma, assuring him. He would find them. He would start his search in the last place that he knew for certain they had been.

Rhodes.

He would start in Rhodes.

* * *

He never liked this place.

Had hated it the moment he first set foot in this forsaken town. At first he had been angry with Dutch for pushing the ludicrous idea of them being deputies. Still was, a bit, if he truly thought of it. But time had worn down that bitterness, Arthur falling into the facade of enforcing the law. Whatever thin law it happened to be, seeing as he knew what those folks got up to behind closed doors.

The sheriff was a drunken fool and an idiot. The Grays, the whole lot of them, were smug and arrogant bastards. Proclaiming themselves to be righteous in a haughty manor. And the Braithwaites were even worse. Catherine like some crazed villain found inside a storybook. In the short time they had spent here they had gotten into fights, had been shot at, had been swindled and in general the entire ordeal had been outright miserable. And if the people weren’t bad enough, then it was the weather.

Each day dry, the sun hanging high above them. The land, locked in a drought, everything covered in a fine sheen of red dust. It stuck to his clothes, to his hair, to his skin. Turned to a fine red paste when he sweat, the dirt smeared across his forehead whenever he wiped his brow. And Dakota, trying to keep him clean had been a chore.

The mustang plodding along the dusty streets now. His tail flicking, trying to keep the flies at bay. Seemingly just as annoyed as he was to be back here as well. Arthur gave him a soft reassurance as they made their way down through town, the sheriff’s station just in view. Archibald and Gray had been the first two people on his mind when he woke.

Not that he had slept much, a few hours snatched in the early morning. Arthur had stayed long enough to have some coffee, before kicking the fire out and taking off towards town. The certainty burning in his heart. As well as an unsettling feeling, resting within him as he worked his way between the buildings.

The streets were unseemly empty. Far too quiet-it sat ill with him, a tickle of unease racing down his spine. Looking without seeming to do so. His eyes grazing the area, taking note of the way people were watching him from afar. Some with fear. Others with indignation. He held the reigns tight in his hands. Dakota pranced under him, sensing his agitation. He let out a low hum, stroking his neck, mumbling that everything was alright.

Sure didn’t feel that way.

Something had happened. Of that, he had no doubt. The air tense, like a thin thread ready to snap at the slightest provocation. Arthur wasn't sure what had caused it all, but he was quickly starting to rethink his idea of coming here.

It _had_ sounded like a good idea. Even if he no longer held the badge granted to him all those weeks ago, Archibald was sure to recognize him. Knew that he was with Dutch, under the guise of Macintosh. The lie already practiced in his head.

He had been waylaid, he'd say. Duties up north. Would say that he had just returned, and was hoping to catch up with his friends. To him, it sounded good enough. At least, it had. That assurance fading as he drew near the building, hitching Dakota outside. The same eeriness encumbering now. The stairs creaking under his weight. A hand pressed against the old wooden door, ready to step inside.

The bullet barely missed him.

The window near his head shattering. Glass flying, shards biting at his skin. Dakota huffing, feet stamping angrily behind him.

He was moving without thought, Arthur ducking, his fingers wrapped tight about his weapon as he pulled it free of its holster. Turning towards the direction the shot had come. Returning fire.

There were more bullets now, the air around him exploding into a frenzy. Raining down on him, missing him if only by a hair. He watched as Dakota broke free of his restraints, the mustang taking off in a panic, leaving him behind. Arthur on his own now, a curse breaking free as he jumped the railing, pressing himself against the wall for cover, heart hammering in his chest.

“What in the hell?”

He had expected many things. Not this. The attack coming unaware, and he was vastly unprepared for it. Two guns and a limited amount of bullets. Most his things were ruined in the short time he was held by the O'Driscolls, and he hadn't taken the time to restock while in Strawberry. Hadn't really had the funds and he had no intention of asking Jimmy for such things. Figured instead that he'd hold out until he go to camp. Hadn't expected to come home to nothing. Hadn't expected to be on his own...still, he was far from helpless, instinct like intuition. He had a gift with guns, a fact he had learned no sooner than the day Dutch had pressed a firearm into his waiting hand. He was a natural.

Made it look easy; hell it felt easy. Arthur knew there was a reason he was always the one chosen to stay behind. Knew there was a reason why he had been chosen to watch over Colm.

  
Knew that there was a reason for everything.

His gun ready; he leaned around the corner, firing off a few rounds, the bullets finding their marks. There were screams splitting the air, chaos all around them as he pressed his back against the wall. Counting the bullets. Taking a breath. Waiting for a break. For a chance.

He fired again.

Two more went down. But more replaced them just a quick. The Gray family larger than he could comprehend, and the rest of the town seemed to join in. His bullets were quickly spent, and he was forced to switch to his cattleman. He could hear them coming, inching ever closer.

Arthur edged around towards the back of the building. His eyes searching for a quick exit. An easy escape. A whistle cutting the air, hoping to draw Dakota back into the fray. If he could get the mustang close enough, he’d be able mount. Ride fast and leave the town behind. Once he got out of here, he'd try and figure out his next move. Right now...right now he just needed to leave.

It must have been what Dutch and the others had done.

The sinking realization that the Grays must have somehow discovered their ploy. That they were taking them to be fools. The lot must have chased them towards new avenues. There was no way for them to stay if they were no longer welcome. A bullet hit the ground near him, causing him to flinch, breaking through his thoughts. He pulled back, crouching low to the ground. Answered with a shot of his own, the bullet finding its mark.

He had only a couple shots left. His eyes narrowing in as a group of them approached. Guns leveled at him, faces he didn’t quite recognize. But the Gray family was large. Extensive. Complicated. Full of brothers and cousins; he had met his fair share in the short time he had been here. Seemed as though he was going to meet more of them. Hadn't liked any of them.

Certainly wasn't liking them now.

“Come on now,” the tall one in the center said, “you and your lot have done caused enough trouble. Make this easy on yourself.”

He wondered what the others had done. If they had found themselves in the same situation. If they had, Arthur doubted that they had surrendered. He would have read about it, the papers wouldn’t have glossed over such a monumental event. Arthur knew, in his heart, they had gotten away. The evidence glaringly obvious.

Coming here had been a mistake. He should have known better.

Too late to change things, he knew. Arthur weighed his options. The idea of surrender playing on his mind. If anything, it would prolong death by a few hours. If lucky, it would be days. He'd hang by the end of the week. No one would know, and no would come to rescue him. No amount of talk or bluster would get him out. His fate, resigned.

Surrender would guarantee his death.

Fighting would at least give him a chance, no matter how slim. Death seemed inevitable either way. His finger tightened on the trigger. His fear pushed aside. Anger taking its place. Arthur moving to his feet.

His choice made.

Two bullets. Three men. The odds definitely were not in his favor.

He was going to die. The thought didn't bother him; not like it should. Rather it seemed a shame. After all this time-barely limping away from Colm, and making it this far. After all the shit he had been through...didn't seem real.

The men, once again calling for his surrender. Arthur felt himself grin; he had always been a fool. His finger tight on the trigger.

Welcoming death with open arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear -
> 
> Things aren't looking all that good for Arthur, are they? From bad to worse, it seems. What trouble has he gotten himself into now? Or rather, what trouble has the gang left behind? More importantly - how is he gonna get out of this one? 
> 
> Or will he?
> 
> Bit of an early post, this Holiday Week has my work schedule a little funky, so I'm posting late instead of early. Hope you all enjoy! Drop a comment, lemme know you're still around, and I'll see you guys on Friday. 
> 
> Happy and Safe Holidays all!


	6. Beau

Time seemed to stand still. The seconds stretching into hours; each and every movement drawn out. Prolonged. His breaths heavy in his ears, heart thundering in his chest. And the faint realization that he was going to die didn’t bother him in the least.

Maybe it should have. Yet by now he had faced death more times than he could count. Had gotten out of more than one unfavorable situation after another, each one worse than the last. Had all but come back from dead after his last encounter with Colm. So if he perished here, if this was indeed it, it had been a long time coming.

He focused his aim on the man in the center. The one who had called for his surrender. Arthur concluding that he was the one who posed the biggest threat. Figured that the two lackies that followed were too incompetent to think on their own. Too used to following orders and unwilling to engage unless specified otherwise. Or at least, that’s what he hoped.

Then there was heat.

The roar of the explosion catching him off guard. The force, propelling him to the ground. He lay on his back dazed, blinking dully at the blue sky above. Trying to understand what had happened. Wafts of smoke curled in his vision. His ears, ringing. And the heat...he could feel the heat. The fire blazing, consuming everything. The building being devoured in flames, the smoke pouring into the air. Thick and black, ash and soot floating, coming to a rest around him. Stinging his eyes, a hand brought up to shield against the blaze. He could see the others, sprawled out on the ground, mirroring him. Just as dazed as he was.

He flinched at the hand on his shoulder. The kid, eyes wide and face flushed as he pushed him to his feet. Arthur staggering after him, still not quite sure of what had taken place. But he wasn’t going to question it. Found himself stumbling after his retreating form, seeing the horses fastened to a post across the street. He must have tracked Dakota down. Must have caught him, had brought him back. The mustang even more agitated as the flames roared.

Arthur hefted himself up and into the saddle, pulling the reigns free. Holding tight as Dakota reared, panicked. Settling at his voice as Arthur choked out a few words. The steed needed little encouragement to flee, already wanting to go. They peeled away from the chaos that was erupting behind them. He followed the other’s lead, dust kicked up in their wake. Their departure, unnoticed, the focus of town now occupied on the fire. On trying to put out flames. To save the buildings. He spared them only the briefest of glimpses. His attention turned back to the road.

The road they soon left behind.

The horses racing through tall grass. Bolting through a line of trees. Slowing only when the town behind them disappeared. A rolling field of hills in front of them. Beau’s face was pinched, the worry heavy as he reigned his horse in. The kid, panting, short on breath as Arthur pulled to a stop near him.

“You’re a god damn fool,” Arthur spat out, once ensuring they were truly alone. His remark causing the other to laugh, the sound nervous.

“That was-that was _awful_. But it should keep them busy. I don’t-don’t think I killed anyone.”

“Killed anyone?” Arthur raised an eyebrow. “You set the damn place on fire. Sure anyone inside is dead. What the hell you done throw anyway?”

“Fire bottle,” Beau offered up meekly, shrugging his shoulders. “I found one inside the barn a few weeks back, and I-thought-figured I’d hang onto it, in case I ever needed it. Turns out, I was right.”

“Yeah, well, guess I appreciate it,” Arthur let out a sigh, leaning forward in his saddle. Musing over just how close he had come to dying. Had survived, once again, by God’s good grace. He heard tales, of God and the Devil. Didn’t rightly believe them, and even if he did he was sure it was the Devil who’d be waiting for him. But lately he was beginning to wonder if God really was keeping an eye on him. That, he figured, would be an awkward conversation if he happened upon the pearly gates he so often heard about.

He pushed the thoughts aside, attention turning to their surroundings. Dakota had calmed under him, was grazing lazily at the long grass below as though they hadn’t just been in the midst of chaos. In front of them, the old battlefield stretched. A graveyard of its own, cannons and barracks all rusted, forgotten by time. He remembered Dutch saying his pa had fought here. Had died here. The man had never been fond of this area either.

He wondered where Dutch had gone. Lips pursed, speculating. Deciding then that the gang _had_ done something to evoke that kind of response.

“Your folks; they sure seem jumpy," he decided to test the silence. Poking and prodding without seeming to do so. "They weren’t right happy to see me.”

“Guess that kind of comes with the territory Mr. Arthur,” Beau responded nonchalantly. “Hasn’t even been a week since your friends shot up the place. My family-well they were angry before that even; says it was you lot that burned down the fields.”

They had done that. He and Sean sneaking in there, waiting until the night. Dousing the brittle crop in moonshine and sending them alight. It had turned into an inferno, the pair of them barely escaping with their lives. The smoke, seen for miles. And seems as though they hadn’t gotten away unnoticed. Though the mentioning of the shooting sat ill with him.

“Any one get hurt?”

The question unwanted, but he needed to know. Watched as Beau shook his head, a scowl on his face.

“Just about half the Gray family put underground,” he admitted. “As for the others; I don’t know for sure. I weren’t there to see it. But it is what started all this mess; my uncle wanted me to step up and take over the business seeing as most of them fools got killed. Wanted to groom me, to have me become the sheriff. Me? A sheriff? I don’t want that.”

“So you what? Decide to burn the place to the ground? Not like your problem's just gonna disappear; they’re going to rebuild, you know. Aside from that, they may be a bunch of fools, but I thought they was family?”

“No family of mine, Mr. Arthur,” Beau spat out glumly. “I told them; told them I did. That I wanted to marry Penelope. They all but disinherited me; and the Braithwaites; they won’t let me get near. Threatened to lynch me if I came back.”

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Watching the youth sit there, shuffling nervously in his saddle. That same, far-off look in his eyes whenever he spoke of the woman. Damn, did he ever have it bad. Arthur shook his head.

“Well, you a damn fool then. What’d you think was gonna happen? That they was just going to accept things and throw you a damn parade?”

“I couldn’t stand it anymore,” he huffed. “All this pretending and sneaking about. Acting like nothing was happening. Then my uncle springing that on me, wanting me to put roots down here? I _won’t_ stand for it. Penelope and I? Well, we’ve made up our minds. We gonna head up north, to Boston. Start our own family, leave this all behind. So I told them as much, and well...guess you can see where it got me. But I wouldn’t change things, even if I could. I done said my part and well...guess love makes you do stupid things, Mr. Arthur.”

That it did. He could attest to that. Could well remember chasing after Jamie, a fool of an errand tasked to him by Mary. How she had stolen his heart, and always enticed him back. Had begged and pleaded until he had submitted. He’d do anything for her, and she wouldn’t even give him the time of the day. A right old fool he was, he supposed. But at least he knew where the kid was coming from.

“So, why you still here then?” he wondered. “If you got such grand plans, what’s the reason for you hanging around here, burning things up?”

“I told you,” Beau seemed taken aback. “They won’t let me in to see her. Not especially after their manor got burned down.”

“What? You set that on fire too?” Arthur wondered, slightly amused. Wondering if the kid was set to burn the entire county down just to get his way.

“It ain’t a laughing matter,” he growled, irascibly.

“Alright, alright, calm down. I’m only joshing,” he watched him. Wondering to what had happened. Something, obviously, seeing all the chaos that had taken place. The Grays, hostile at his mere approach. The Braithwaite, equally in ruins apparently.

“Look; last I heard they had her holed up in one of the cabins along the lake. Keeping a mighty close eye on her; she manages to slip letters out every now and then, but she can’t get away for more than a few minutes at a time.”

“What does this have to do with me?”

“Well,” Beau said hesitantly, “I figured you could slip in there, get her out that place.”

“Me?” Arthur thumbed towards his chest. “You think I oughtta race in there, and risk my neck doing something that you should be doing?”

“I ain’t like you,” Beau argued, his face set tight. “And sides, as soon as they see me there, they’re liable to shoot me dead.”

“Ain’t like me?” Arthur fought off a laugh, “Was I drunk, or was it not you who just torched half of your family’s town?”

“That’s different. This is...this is big. We’re planning on running away; turning our backs on our family, on our past. There wont be any coming back after this, Mr. Arthur.”

How true that was. Though Arthur suspected there was little left for either of them here. Beau had already admitted his desires, his intentions. And Arthur knew little of the Grays, but the one thing he did know was they were folk who held long grudges.

“Would you do this?” Beau asked him, eyes pleading. “For the both of us?”

“Look-they just as likely to gun me down as they are you. And I’m not keen on getting shot on someone else’s account. You’re just gonna have to figure this one out on your own.”

“I saved your life,” Beau snapped suddenly. Angry now. Brow furrowed in such a way it was almost comical. The kid, by no means, intimidating. Was even less of a threat. Could knock him down clean in a single blow. Wouldn’t even take much effort.

But he had a soft spot for the kid. For the both of them, despite how crazy they were. Arthur found himself sighing, a hand running over his face as Beau continued.

“Now I could have just let them shoot you dead right there; I had no reason to step in, to stop them. But I did and you-well you owe me, and if you won’t-”

“Alright, alright,” Arthur cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Calm down, will ya? I’ll go get her.”

The change almost immediate. Almost endearing. A stupid grin on his face, the whites of his teeth showing as he sat taller in the saddle. “You will? Oh, thank you! I don’t know how to thank you!”

“It’s alright,” he dismissed the enthusiasm, though he couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at him. “But look-you gotta be ready to leave. You two can’t stay here; all of this? It’s over. And I ain’t about to risk my neck so you two fools can wind up dead. You hear me?”

“Of course,” Beau replied, as though that was a given. “I told you already that we have plans. Head up north to-”

“Boston,” Arthur cut him off with a nod. He knew that already. “But you got a plan to actually get there?”

“Oh yes,” Beau reached into pocket, fiddling with a wad of bills, almost flaunting it. The bills crisp and thick in size as he unfolded it. There was a sly smile on his face.

“I consider it my investment; seeing as they see fit to take everything else from me.” The announcement sparking a bit of mirth in him; a different side to Beau he rightly didn't know even existed. Arthur watched as the kid flipped through the stack, parting it, the portion held out to him. “And don’t think I wasn’t going to pay. I haven’t forgotten.”

It was tempting. His own pockets empty, his supplies run low. By now he had hoped to be back with the gang. And now, he hadn’t a clue of when or even if he he’d find them. But he could make money well enough. A simple slight of hand in a busy saloon could clench him more than enough to survive until they crossed paths. And Beau, he figured, needed it more if he was to go through with his plans. The two hapless fools in love would be completely lost once they got free from this wretched place. 

“Tell you what else you can do for me,” he waved the offer, shifting in his saddle. “You think you can get back into town alright? I mean, after what you done?”

“Oh sure,” the man said with a shrug, “don't think anyone saw me; sides that, I think my family has taken an oath to not say anything towards me. They all act like I don't exist anymore, pretend like that's supposed to hurt my feelings or something. Why? You need something?”

“Well, while I'm risking my neck getting Penelope out of there, I need you to head into town. See if there’s any letters at the post for me.”

It was the only other place he had on mind to visit. Had planned to stop by after chatting with the sheriff. But events, as per usual, hadn’t gone to plan. Seemed like that was happening a lot lately.

“You sure?” Beau still held out the cash. Pocketing it a moment later as Arthur gave him a sour look. “I uh-don’t know who to check under-”

“Taciticus Kilgore,” Arthur explained lightly, shaking his head at the kid's baffled look, “It’s...a long story.”

He had sent a letter their way. Last he had checked, nothing had arrived in Strawberry. But perhaps they had left it here instead. Knowing that he would eventually make his way south. Knowing that he would venture to Rhodes once he found Clemens abandoned. Yes…he was sure of that. That there was a letter waiting for him. That would explain where they had gone. Give enough of a clue so that he could track them down. He was relieved to see the kid nod, a breath let out as he continued.

“So...once I get her out of there, you got a place we gonna meet? Not like I can just bring her into town.”

“Oh no,” Beau shook his head, “I mean, they’d shoot you both dead on sight.”

“That they would,” Arthur agreed. “So?”

“I paid a driver already, he’s gonna wait for us north of the town, up by Southfield Flats. Take her up that way, and I’ll meet you there. He’ll get us to Emerald Ranch, and we’re gonna ride the train up to Boston.”

So, the kid had a plan after all. Arthur nodded approvingly, interrupting Dakota’s grazing as he turned the mustang around. “Right then; you be ready to go. I’ll meet you soon as I can.”

He wasn't quite sure what he was agreeing to. Knowing the dangers of traversing in Braithwaite territory given all that had happened. Knowing he was missing a chunk of the story. Hoping that he would soon have answers. But he figured it would be alright. After all, all he had to do was get Penelope out of there.

Colm...the disaster in Rhodes, and now this; riding right into another hell hole. The things people convinced him to do. Maybe he was a fool. A lucky fool, but a fool nonetheless.

He could only hope that his foolish luck continued to hold out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morning all! Happy Friday!
> 
> Seems Beau has grown up a little in the short time since Arthur saw him last. He's finally taking a stand against his awful family, and seems like he has some big plans in store. We'll just have to see if they actually pan out. 
> 
> Will he get Penelope out? Will Beau make it to the post and back? Guess we'll find out come Tuesday! Drop a comment, share your thoughts, and I'll see you all then :)


	7. Penelope

He cursed himself for not having a plan. Not that he was one for making them in the first place, but he knew traversing headfirst into anywhere without preparing was a piss poor idea. And yet, he was doing exactly that.

The first time he had been here, it had been luck and luck alone that seen him to that gazebo under the predatory watch of the guards. Scurrying along through the fields, skirting alongside the fence with bated breath. Cursing himself a fool all the more as he crept through the dark. Cursing himself now as well. How he got himself involved in shenanigans like this he was not certain; but Arthur was hoping that thin thread of luck he had found still existed.

Seems as though it did. His fears, unfounded. Getting into Braithwaite Manor was far easier than he expected. Perhaps too easy...

Arthur supposed the fact that the manor had been burned and gutted had something to do with it. He caught a glimpse of it when he went by, the towering house nothing more than charred remains. Generations of history reduced to ash, the former owners no doubt buried beneath the rubble. There was hardly anything of value left to guard, that fact blatantly obvious as the grounds around the ruined estate were void of any activity. The guards instead patrolling the further boundaries of the property, their gait idle and he suspected some of them were drunk given their uneasy stagger.

He couldn’t help but wonder why Beau hadn’t been able to sneak in. But then again, Arthur half suspected Beau might have ridden straight in on the main road and demanded she be let go. In fact, he would bet his entire earnings on it. Which, he had to admit, was not very much. Still he couldn't help think on it. He doubted that Beau was used to such a thing of stealth, a funny thought seeing how long this affair had gone on. Arthur guessed that was due more to families' oversights than anything else. Too wrapped up in their own feuds to see what was taking place right beneath their noses.

As for him-sneaking into places was a specialty. Made all the easier by the fact that hardly any sneaking had to be done; just careful consideration of where he rode. Dakota wove through the trees easily, avoiding the path the guards patrolled; they were none the wiser to the fact they had a visitor in their midst.

The cabins stood out in front of him, the people there eyeing him warily. No doubt on edge for what had taken place at the main house, wondering perhaps of what would come of them now that their livelihood had been destroyed. Arthur gave them a quaint nod, tipping his hat, before pushing on, eyes searching the crowd.

Penelope spotted him first. A laugh splitting the air as she jumped off one of the porches. There was a knowing smile on her face as she clasped his hands in excitement once he dismounted. Her frame quivering in elation as a superfluous giggle tore through the air.

“I knew it!”

“You knew I was coming?”

That surprised him. Because _he_ hadn't even known that he as coming here until just an hour ago. He must have had a look on his face, or perhaps it was just the manner of his voice that set her laughing even more. The giggles stifled quickly by a hand as she tried to keep it down, not wanting to draw unwanted attention their way. There were no guards in the immediate area, true, but they were still close by. No doubt any excessive commotion would attract attention, the very thing they were trying to avoid. Her voice dropped low into a whisper when she had calmed.

“No, you silly; Beau! He tried coming for me the other night, and these wretches chased him off before he got close. Told him he wasn't welcome here. But I knew he'd come back for me.”

“You do realize that he ain't here, right?” Arthur raised an eyebrow. Here he had all but risked his life coming in here, and Beau was still getting all the credit. That inquiry all but confirmed as she answered.

“Well, he's the one who sent you; so it's practically the same. You wouldn't be here if not for him.”

He let out a sigh, shrugging, knowing that she did have a point. Still didn’t much like it. No point in arguing, he supposed. It wouldn’t change anyone's mind, least of all Penelope's. Hardheaded and astute she was, and it reminded him of Grimshaw; yet another woman who could not be reasoned with. In the end, it was better for everyone to simply concede. And Penelope sure was something else, if not determined. Already packed, her bags clutched in her hands as she followed him. Arthur helped her up, onto the back of Dakota, before mounting himself, a click of his tongue propelling the mustang to move. They avoided the path, weaving in and out of the trees as they worked their way towards freedom.

It was almost too easy.

“If I'm being honest, I didn't think I'd see you around here,” Penelope broke the silence once they had cleared the fence. The open road lie in front of them now, twisting into the trees, beckoning them north. The sun held high, nearing noon. Time, it seemed, was racing away.

“Oh?” Arthur wondered, “And why's that?”

“Well, I just figured you moved on with the rest of your friends, is all. Seeing what y'all did to the place. Didn't figure you stick around after that.”

“You're assuming quite a few things there,” he warned her, his tone gruff. Of course he hadn’t gotten the story from Beau. The kid had mentioned that the manor had been burned down, but hadn’t gone into detail about _how_ had happened. And Arthur hadn't spent much time speculating, hadn’t really had the chance to do so given everything that had happened. There had been a brief thought that Beau had been responsible, seeing his latest act that had taken place in town. That thought fleeting, fast as Dakota's hooves.

His second thought had the raiders. The more likely suspect, perhaps in retaliation with all that moonshine business. They had openly attacked the saloon after all, so the likelihood of them setting the manor ablaze was there. But now here, a new revelation, Penelope all but accusing the gang of such an act. He didn’t like the thought.

Honestly, he didn’t think it possible; not really. Then again, when he truly thought about it, it wasn't far from what he'd come to expect. After twenty years he had long grown accustomed to the irrationality and cruelty put forth by others. Had been through some shit, had seen even more shit. Knew that he too, had partaken in his fair share of questionable acts.

So what then, was burning an old rancid place to the ground?

The pieces falling into place as she continued.

“Not that I blame them, or you,” she reassured him, “seeing as my cousins took that boy of yours.”

_That_ caught his attention. Dakota slowed to a stop as he turned round to look at her. “What you talking about? What boy?”

Because he knew of only one person who was still young enough for Penelope to call a boy. And he didn’t want to believe it. He must have spouted the question irately, the aghast look on her face an indication of his temper. It turned to indignation a moment later, hands brushing the creases out of her dress timidly as she tried to compose herself.

“I'll have you know that I was not a part of that,” she ground out slowly. “My aunt, she's the one who sent them. It was her idea; I only heard about it when the lot of you showed up, demanding to know where he was. If anything, I'm glad they burned the place down. It was ugly as it was old. And my aunt was vile and..and uncouth. A real nasty harridan, if you ask me.”

Catherine Braithwaite...he had only had the gracious opportunity of meeting her a few times. Hadn't been impressed by her in the slightest. Hosea had liked her even less, had called her an old crone once, bemoaning the woman's atrocities while he and Arthur had played a game of dominoes. Arthur had not found a more fitting description. Until now, perhaps. But the news sat ill with him, his gaze drifting forward, watching the empty road. Quite suddenly his chest hurt, trying to process what had been said.

Jack, taken.

The gang burning the place down.

Had they...did they?

He cleared his throat, his voice soft when he next spoke. There was no reason to be angry with her, but the worry was there. About Jack...wanting to know and yet afraid to even ask. The words difficult to come by.

“The boy-he...is he...where?”

“Oh, no,” she was quick in cutting him off, shaking her head. “No, nothing like that. My cousins might be stuck in last century and dumb as a box of rocks, but they ain't like that. They aren't monsters; just annoying pigs is all. The boy's fine, I'm sure. They took him to the city; idiots gave him Angelo. Guess they thought they’d get even for all the trouble you folks done caused, but turns out they were the fools thinking they could get away with it.”

“Now hold up a sec,” he cut her off, his mind trying to catch up with what she had said. Jack was in the city? _What city_? And who the hell was Angelo? The questions tumbling out of him faster than his lips could form the words.

“Angelo? Angelo Bronte,” she prompted, as though he was supposed to know _who_ the man was. Arthur shrugged, brows creasing as he frowned. She let out a sigh, explaining.

“He's another rich prude,” Penelope elaborated. She shifted behind him, trying to get comfortable. “Lives in the city in a big fancy place on the north side. Comes from Italy or something I guess. Never much liked him either, he's a pig. Has a bunch of cronies that canvass the city; likes them young. Something about children being invisible on the streets. That's where your boy's likely to be. I figured all of you had headed that way to find him.”

So...Saint Denis. The gang had gone towards the city. Perhaps the last place he would have guessed. Drawing ever close to civilization. But he didn't blame them. If Jack was there, then they would have had no choice. They would have stopped at nothing to get that boy back. So that was why they had cleared out of Clemens Point. It should have reassured him, but it didn't. His throat tight at the revelation. The thought of young Jack on the streets... Arthur swallowed at the invisible lump there.

He had spent three years on the streets himself. Three long, awful years where he had assured himself he would die. Taken in by Dutch and Hosea when he had been near starving and feeble as a twig. The streets, he knew, were not kind to beggars. Were even less kind to children. He didn’t like the thought of Jack being there. Hoped dimly that the others had found him. Abigail and John, the both of them no doubt, probably out of their minds with worry.

He'd find out. He'd make sure-Arthur let out a sigh, adjusting his hat. Reigns grabbed once more, ready to push on. Felt like there were a thousand things to be done, but the first was still before him.

“Alright, let’s get you to Beau then.”

Saint Denis...he had been there before. Once or twice. The city large and sprawling. Busy and repellent, just as Dutch always said cities were. There wasn’t much desire to head there once more, but it seemed as though that was where fate was taking him. As soon as he saw the two off, he’d head south. Maybe breach the city by the morning if he rode hard. Then he would see what he could figure out.

The rest of the ride to the carriage was quiet, Penelope decidedly talked out. The rustling of the trees from the gentle wind and the calls of the birds above their only companion as the horse sauntered through. Though all of that changed as they rounded a corner and Beau came into view. Penelope hollering in joy as she had slid from Dakota even before he came to a stop. Beau meeting her halfway, enveloping her in his arms, the pair of them squealing in such a way it made him wince.

They were downright fools, the both of them; but it was endearing, he had to admit. Their gratitude flowing and overwhelming. Beau fumbling a thanks as he dug into his coat. The letter held out to him hesitantly. “This was all there was.”

A single letter. But it was more than enough. Arthur snatched at it quickly, working it open. Heart hammering in his chest as he scanned over the words. His heart, stuttering, the disappointment drowning him.

It was his own letter.

Seems as though they hadn’t gotten it. They still hadn’t the slightest clue he was alive-that he was looking for them. He crumbled the paper in his hands, ignoring the pointed look in his direction.

“Bad news?” Beau wondered.

“Nah, it’s-nothing, really,” he didn’t much feel up to explaining. Waving at them instead, “Come on then, let’s get you two outta here, before any of your family shows up. I’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

“Right,” Beau agreed quickly, ushering Penelope to the waiting stage. “I already got us tickets, and if we hurry, we can catch the morning train. You okay following up behind us, making sure we aren’t being followed?”

“I ain’t coming,” Arthur replied stoutly. Suddenly. The mere suggestion perplexed him. His one hand held the carriage door as Beau climbed in, the kid turning back towards him no sooner than he sat.

“But you gotta.” The protest sharp, pleading. He seemed almost perturbed by the mere thought he wasn’t going to come. “You’ve got us this far; you can’t just leave. My cousins will skin us alive if they catch us.”

“Look,” Arthur did his best to ease his fear, “you two head on, get on the train up north. You’ll do just fine. I got my own business to attend to.”

“Please Arthur,” Penelope this time, leaning over Beau so she could see him. “It would mean a lot, to the both us. Consider it a wedding gift, if you will.”

The both of them, together, pleading. He let out a sigh, the frustration there. He didn’t like it; worries of his own creeping in, his gaze turned south, back to where the others were. The trip north would occupy him till the morning, putting him in Saint Denis the next afternoon. Time he rightly didn’t want to waste.

But he couldn’t find it in him. Rough as he was, there was a spot in him soft as spring grass. And he knew that he couldn't do it. That he couldn’t turn them down.

Beau was right; there was still a chance his cousins, stupid as they were, would be willing to follow. And if something _did_ happen to them on their journey forth he’d never forgive himself. He had gotten them this far, Arthur figured he might as well get them the rest of the way.

Didn't mean he liked it, a scowl on his face as he turned away.

“Christ,” he swore, letting a gruff sigh. “Fine; let’s go then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beau and Penelope are reunited! These two are so sweet on each other, it is endearing. I like to think that Arthur has a soft spot for them as well, and would want to see them off safely. 
> 
> But at least now he has some idea of where the gang is at! The pieces, small as they are, are falling into place. Now he just has to get there!
> 
> I'll see you all on Friday! Enjoy :)


	8. Emerald Ranch

The sun was cresting the hills by the time they reached Emerald Ranch.

All fears aside, the ride turned out to be uneventful, the roads quiet as they pushed north. They had only passed a few stray travelers along the way, and none of which were family. Arthur preferred it that way; last he wanted was more trouble, having already had his fair share of it these past few days. Even so, the ride was long, and both Penelope and Beau were worn and weary by the time they arrived, neither of them able to sleep on the journey here. Arthur hadn't either, but he was used to that, used to pushing through the night. Heavens knew he had done so on more than one occasion. Came with the territory, he guessed. The result of a life spent on the run.

Perhaps that was a good thing; he didn't plan on resting anytime soon. Soon as he got these two to the station, his intention was to turn tail to the wind and leave. Something he had almost done, staying only when they had pleaded, the nervousness in their the voice, the worry of trouble still brewing on their minds. It was a request he obliged reluctantly, time passed with idle chatter as the sun slowly crept over the hills. Until eventually the train arrived.

He half suspected they would try and goad him to join them on the ride to Boston. He had steeled himself in preparation to turn them down, but thankfully it never came to that. Penelope had given him a hug farewell, and Beau, a little more restrained, shook his hand, once again thanking him for his troubles. They offered, once more, to pay him. The offer, once again declined. The two would need every last bit of money they had, and it didn't feel right taking from them. The mantra repeated over and over again in his head as he saw them off. Before leaving himself.

He didn’t make it very far. The voice calling out to him as he passed the last of the buildings. Dakota protesting he was pulled short. Seamus was an odd man, a fool he never quite liked. Hosea had been the one to insist on doing business with him, had called him a potential partner. The man had stoutly refused to give them the time of day until he and Hosea had stolen a wagon from a cousin of his. Arthur, in all rights, still didn’t trust the man, but he paid well enough for wagons on the side that he had come back more than once.

And he had, for a moment, forgotten the man was even there.

“Haven’t seen you or your partner for a while,” Seamus said by the way of introduction.

“Been otherwise occupied,” Arthur returned the greeting. They weren't friends; hardly associates. Each squaring off, neither all that great with words. Arthur knew that it had been a while since he last brought something in, and Hosea? Well, Hosea hadn’t really bothered with the man since that first time. Had concluded he was far too old to be snatching wagons and the like, had said it was best left to the young folk like Arthur.

“Right,” Seamus didn’t seem too convinced. “Business with someone else, I have to wonder?”

“Ain’t no business of yours if I do,” Arthur returned, the conversation terse. Far as he was concerned, he could do whatever he damn well pleased. He didn’t have to answer or explain himself to this buffoon.

“Alright,” the man conceded, hands held out to his side. “Don’t mean nothing personal by it. Just business is all. Speaking of which...you looking to make a few extra dollars?”

“Depends,” he shrugged, pretending to be indifferent.

He needed money. That much was obvious. There was no telling when he was going to find the others; Saint Denis was large and vast, and the gang was akin to a ghost, drifting in and out unnoticed. Pestering the local populace would result in little to no information, and he had a funny feeling it might be days before figured out where they were. Longer, perhaps. And until then, he was on his own. He'd need money for food, supplies-maybe even a place to stay if it came to that. Money to bribe, to coax answers out of folk if his fists wouldn't work.

Picking pockets would get him some, though there was little money to be had that way nowadays. It wasn't like when he was younger, when a fistful of coins could get food and lodging. No...now it took dollars. Dollars he rightly didn't have, and though he didn't care for Seamus, the man did provide good pay for his work.

“What you got?”

“Came into the possession of a good one,” the man explained, beckoning him to follow. He did so, ducking inside the barn after him. He blinked, watching as shimmers of light bled through the cracks, washing over the fine wood. He let out a low whistle, admiring it all.

“Fine indeed-where'd you get this from?”

“You ain't need to know,” Seamus told him shortly. “Can't keep it here though; Wegner's been sniffing about lately. Reckon he thinks I'm up to something, so I need it moved and fast. There's a man up north, an associate, I guess you could say. He’d pay top dollar for this beauty. Provided I can get it up there.”

“And I suppose you want me to deliver?”

“I can’t rightly do it,” Seamus pointed out. “Wegner would never let me leave, and I can’t hang onto it for that long. You take this thing up there, sell it off for me; well, reckon I’d give you half the profit for it.”

“And where would I have to take this thing?” he wondered, circling around it.

“Annesburg. Man’s up on the north end, past all the tracks. You deliver, bring my share back, and we’ll call it good.”

“And whats stopping me from just keeping the whole lot?”

“Guess I’m just gonna have to trust you,” Seamus growled out softly. “Either way, I need this thing gone before Wegner finds out. So...we have a deal?”

It was tempting. The emptiness of his pockets unmissed; but north took him away from where he needed to be. From where he so desperately wanted to go. Saint Denis, beckoning, the people he cared about somewhere within its walls. North to Annesburg...that would take him another day yet. He let out a sigh, shaking the hand that had been extended to him.

The others, he reasoned, were okay. They could look after themselves well enough, and his desires to be with them were just that. Desires. They could wait, Arthur telling himself that they were indeed fine. He would catch back up with them, given time.

But to do so, he needed money. And if all he had to do was deliver this thing to Annesburg, then so be it. He could even stock up there, before making his way south. Hit Saint Denis far more prepared than he was now. It sounded reasonable, to him at least. Though the thought was lingering in his mind, leaving him to him wonder.

What in the world was he getting himself into?

* * *

Annesburg.

He had been here once or twice. Never for long though; he never found the appeal of it. Too many things wrong with it. The town stank. A heavy, sultry odor that swamped the air, suffocating him. His face turning into a grimace as he drew in a breath through his mouth. It was a mixture of rot and smoke and grime. It was a mining town, the workers covered in dust as they ambled through the streets. The sooner he could leave from here, the better off he would be.

Thankfully, delivering the wagon had been easy. The man, a distant resemblance of Seamus handing a wad of bills that totaled out near eighty dollars before shooing him away, doors closing gruffly. Arthur thumbed through it all, pocketing close to fifty, keeping the rest for Seamus. It only seemed right, taking a larger cut seeing as he done most the work.

Then he set about tacking Dakota up. The mustang none to pleased of having pulled the wagon clear over the pass and into the town. Arthur cooed gently, promising him a bundle of treats soon as they got going. A list in his mind, a plan all laid out.

A few cans of fruit, a couple sticks of salted meat. Coffee, a thing that was desperately needed. Plus some spare change for a few drinks. God knew he need those as well, Arthur pausing on the steps to down a bottle. Using his sleeve to wipe away the excess.

His next stop was at the stables. Handing over yet more cash to stock up on peppermints, a few apples and carrots, all of which Dakota nosed at eagerly. He paid extra to have him brushed, his shoes tended to, the entire process taking nearly an hour. And with the sun blaring overhead, he set off. Intended to make good time as they were no longer tied down by the heavy wagon.

He didn’t make it far.

The woman coming out from nowhere, surprising him. Arthur shying away from the touch, trying to brush off her excitement, to calm her. Her words, making no sense, enough to a point that he wondered exactly what had been in that last drank to confound him so easily. But his worry, evaporating, as the man stepped up beside her, the realization hitting him with recognition.

The German Family.

_That_ was why he hadn’t understood them. He nodded, awkwardly, shaking hands and smiling uneasily as they chattered. Still bewildered, still unable to understand them. Knowing only that they were happy to see him. He tried to wave them off, tried to explain he was in a hurry, but there was little hope of that. They simply didn't understand him. The couple all but insisting he follow.

So he followed, if only to get away from prying eyes that had been captured from their spectacle.

Their shack was nestled among all the others on the westside, backed up clear against the hill. A small place, the family housed together in two tiny rooms. Arthur took his hat off, sat at the table at their insistence. It wasn’t long before he had a cup of coffee, the family more than eager to share, no doubt still trying to thank him for his deeds all that time ago.

Truth be told it was more Charles than he. Arthur had been disinclined to help, more than eager to chase them off without a second thought. He remembered the man shouting at him, lecturing him. The argument that spanned about morality. It was almost entertaining. Here they were but a handful of thieves and Charles saw fit to divulge in the philosophy of good deeds. All the while killing men with his bare hands.

“ _I only kill when I have to.”_

The defense had come. Arthur supposed it was true. Charles was never reckless; the man calm and reserved more often than not. The thoughts on his mind as he half listened to their rambling. Smiling at their eager words. He still didn’t understand them. But he let them ramble, partook in yet another cup. Graciously ate the bread and cheese they offered up. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday, his stomach empty and protesting something fierce.

It paid to be kind, he supposed, thanking them once he had finished. The expression on their face was evidence enough that they understood his gratitude. The farewell taken graciously as he departed, well into the afternoon now.

Well past the time he had wanted. Urging Dakota on, speeding south now. At this pace, he’d hit Emerald Ranch by nightfall. Arthur doubted that Seamus would still be up; the man would have gone home for the night. So he’d have to wait for the morning. Arthur decided that he’d make some headway, break for camp when it became too dark to see. Maybe get an early start the next morning.

He had barely rounded O'Creagh's run when he first heard the call. Dakota slowing under his lead, the mustang huffing at the sudden turn. The voice, faint, but clearly directed at him. Frustrated and tired, if he had to guess. Definitely more annoyed than distressed. Arthur turned towards it, weaving through the trees, his eyes scanning the area, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“You there? Can you help?”

It took him a moment, several long seconds of scanning the area before he found him. The man pressed up against the rocks, looking worn and bedraggled. Exasperated. Clearly irritated by the situation at hand.

“Can you help me, mister?”

Asked in such a way he almost seemed as though he expected to be turned away;as though he had been turned away before. Arthur frowned at the thought, wondering then just _how_ many had passed by without giving him a second glance. Or worse, those who had spared a second glance and continued on regardless. Noticing just now his leg...or rather, the lack of one, cut off below the knee.

“What the problem?” he wondered, trying his best to not gawk at the scarred flesh that was there. If the man noticed, he said nothing. His head drooping instead as he answered with a sigh, his voice drawn thin as though he was embarrassed to explain.

“My goddamn horse got spooked and run off.”

“Are you hurt?”

He had been thrown from horses before. Knew the damage they could cause. Had suffered his fair share of bumps and bruises; once had busted a rib. That was years ago when he was first learning to ride. Hell, just a few years back Bo had thrown him into a brier patch. He winced sympathetically at the thought. Arthur watched as the man shook his head.

“Not too bad at least...but he took my damn leg,” the man gestured down to the stump protruding beneath his pants.

For a moment, all Arthur could do was stare at the scarred mass of tissue, those words filtering through his mind too slowly. He blinked owlishly, all his prior decorum forgotten, replaced by meandering thoughts of how a horse might have taken a man’s leg.

“Sorry,” the apology came, almost instinctual. True he had played no part in it, bore no responsibility, but he could still feel empathy for the other. He moved over the side, coming a rest against he rock as the man gestured in a vague direction.

“He went that way, I think. His name's Buell.”

“Buell?” Arthur wondered. What an odd name for a horse, he mused. Of course, he shouldn't be one to judge, having ridden the likes of Bodicea, Cassiopea and Ophichus in his youth. The man didn't seem to bothered by his prodding.

“Second time a prick named Buell cost me a leg.”

“Huh?” that caught him off guard, Arthur glancing down at the other.

“Buell was my general...when I lost it,” came the explanation.

“Ah, okay,” Arthur caught on, realizing that the man was referencing past days. Understanding he had been in a war. He’d known amputees before, victims of wars they barely had stock in; briefly he thought of Mickey. Wondered if this man suffered similarly. Wondered if it was the same war down south, the one Dutch's father had fought in.

A pang of something resembling bitterness; he wondered which side the man had taken all those years ago. That feeling brushed away easily, however; he seemed decent enough.

“Anyway, if you see an angry _bastard_ of a horse...with my wooden leg...I'd be real grateful.”

Wooden leg. Arthur figured that made a hell of a lot more sense than whatever he was thinking before. Those damn prosthesis came off easy; he’d stolen more than enough for kicks to know that.

Man was proud, Arthur reckoned. The words stunted, almost forced out. Obviously disliked the prospect of asking for help, but it was either ask, or wait...and who knew how long he had been waiting already.

“I'll bear that in mind,” Arthur reassured him, gazing off in the direction that had been indicated. Torn now. It was close to nightfall, and he had made nowhere the distance he wanted. But there was no reasonable part in his mind that would compel him to leave the man alone out here. Already the chill of the air could be felt, an assurance the night would be long and miserable. Guess there was nothing too it.

With a bit of a sigh he pushed off, following the broken trail through the brush. Buell, he reasoned, must be a large horse. Heavy, if any indication from the prints left in the soft soil. Had pushed through the undergrowth here, branches broken and fallen leaves scattered. The trail crossing the road.

It didn't take long for him to see the gleam of the pale hide. A Warmblood, by the looks of it, stocky and stern. The horse feeding on the edge of the lake. And none too happy to see him. Angry and agitated, foot stamping the ground as he neared. Even when he kept his voice low, his reassurances did little to ease the stallion's temper.

But slowly, ever so slowly, he made progress. A hand pressed against his hide as he drew near, the Warmblood watching him warily. Ears flicking forward at his calm voice. Watching him closely, Arthur's moving slow, fingers curling around the reigns.

“Come on then. Let's get you back.”

Surprisingly, Buell gave him no trouble. This supposed hellion that the man described was docile under his hold. Following without protest. Though he could feel it; the horse had a fire in his belly. Arthur found himself talking even before he realized, a bit of mirth in his voice.

“He's just where you left him. Can't go far with that leg in your stirrup. Can't go bucking him like that,” he scolded, laughing almost. Wondering how he got here, scolding a horse that weren't even his. But there was nothing to it, and Arthur found himself finishing his lecture.

“So, you better be good, you hear? I get the notion he's not a man you want to cross. No matter how big and strong you are.”

The rest of the walk finished in silence, cresting the hill and crossing the road. Plodding slowly back to where the man was still waiting.

“I found him.”

The relief was easily seen, the man scooting himself up. “You're a good man, mister. Mister?”

“Arthur,” he nodded towards him, a laugh escaping as he reached up, stroking the Warmblood, “You're right, he's a brute.”

The man grunted, pulling himself up, braced against the rocks. “Hamish Sinclair...yeah, he's a great horse, aside from when the devil's got him. You wanna hand me that leg there, please? And while you're at it, give old Buell a kick for me, would ya?”

Arthur balked at the commend, though soon enough registered the subtle humor in Hamish’s voice. Felt the love between him and his horse, the strength of the bond between them. A smile softened his featured.

It took a moment to work it free, but Arthur handed it over dutifully. Hamish making quick work of strapping it back on with practiced movements. “Weren't but a snake that spooked him. You're a real gentleman, you know?”

Arthur hummed; Dakota had done the same a few times.

“Sometimes, maybe,” Arthur agreed quietly, having gone back over to Buell. Last thing he wanted for for the creature to spook again, and spend even more time hunting him down. “How did you lose the leg?”

The curiosity to great to ignore; his manners forgotten. Watching as Hamish walked over towards them. Man seemed able to walk just fine; hardly would notice something was amiss if he hadn't seen it for himself.

“Oh, in the war...cannon ball. Pretty clean though. I don't have much pain and I didn't get any gangrene. Young boy went into battle with me got cut in half...so all things considered...I'm doing pretty well I guess.”

he shuddered sympathetically. Gangrene...that had been a worry for Arthur. Back when he been trapped by Colm. His shoulder festering, damn near septic. One of his greater fears-things turned out alright in the end. Had Jimmy to thank for that. The doctor too, no matter how crude the man had been. At least he still had his arm...at least he weren't like...him. He swallowed the thought back, his eyes focused on Buell. Trying to forget.

“Look, I ain't got much to pay you with, but why don't you come with me, up to my place? Got some good food on the fire that should be about ready, if it hasn't gone up and burned yet. And I've done a fair share of hunting, bagged myself some beauties. Trophies galore, I tell you. Think you might fancy them, and guess it's my way of thanking you?”

“Ah, that's okay,” Arthur shook the offer off. If anything he wanted to keep pushing, make some more headway. Get down near the ranch, set up for the night there. He had his provisions he picked up in Annesburg to tie him over. Nothing fancy, but it wasn't like he needed fancy.

Hamish insisted though. The invitation offed up once more. The man indicating the sky that was quickly growing dark. “I could always use the company, you know. Old fella like me, well I don't get too many visitors. Gets kind of lonely every once in a while.”

The offer hanging there; Emerald Ranch, he knew, was still a few hours away. The decision weighing in his mind. Arthur disputing it, then letting out a sigh. What difference would it make if he stayed here the night, or if he pressed on? Wouldn't go anywhere until after he stopped by Seamus, and the man wouldn't be there until the morning.

“Sure,” he nodded, mounting Dakota. “Lets see these trophies of yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who doesn't love Hamish?
> 
> So obviously they meet sooner, rather than later, and in pretty much the same fashion. Arthur keeps trying to make his way south, but he is, as ever, easily distracted. Unable to say no. But at least he's with good company, right? 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy, and I'll catch you Tuesday with more :)


	9. Hamish

He hadn't been lying. About the trophies. About his prowess. The telltale signs adoring each and every wall, each one bolstered by a story, embellished and sprinkled with so many details that Arthur was certain most of it was exaggerated.

Yet there was a passion in Hamish's words as he spoke, and Arthur found himself captivated by those tales. Enthralled by them. Downright entertained, laughing so hard at times it was difficult to breathe. They were freshly met, but Arthur quickly found himself liking the man.

He was glad he had stayed.

Hamish hadn’t even asked; had simply launched into his odysseys the moment they were through the door. It reminded him, vaguely, of Hosea. A similar instance way back when, in the times they had just met. The man discovering soon enough Arthur’s enjoyment of such stories. The man would often read to him at night, even long after Arthur had mastered the written word. While he wasn’t much of a reader himself, he rather did like listening to spun tales.

And did Hamish ever have the stories to tell. About days long past, about people he had never even met. The man elaborating as though certain people were shared acquaintances. Described in such a way that Arthur felt as though he knew them. He spoke of his time in the war. About the years that followed, adjusting to his lost limb, and once again finding his freedom. About finding this place here, and turning it into a home. But mostly, Hamish spoke of his hunts. One of which was about how he prowled the mountains for near a month, tracking a large albino moose. Another time in which he fought off a pack of wolves. The last, a grizzly – the animal turned into a rug that adorned the floor of his cabin.

“Damn near got ate by one,” Arthur had shared his own encounter, remember back to the hunt he had gone on with Hosea. “Weren't too far from here if I remember right.”

“Oh?” that had peaked the man's interest, “You must be talking about old Greeves.”

“You named the damn thing?” he started, looking over at him.

They had eaten earlier; a rich, hearty stew with fresh baked bread. A feast compared to what he been supping on previously. Ever more impressed with the man's talents. It was no wonder he lived out here on his own, far away any civilization. Lost in own world. A life, perhaps, that Arthur might enjoy.

Had things been different.

Had he not the others to worry about.

If he wasn’t always on the run.

“Course I did,” Hamish scoffed. “Name every damn thing that wants to eat me. A wild one he is; big, mean and angry. Though I’d be angry too, if I had all them scars. Come to think of it, I haven't seen Greeves in a while; think something finally might have taken him down.”

“Yeah,” Arthur nodded, a wide grin on his face, “that something be me.”

“And you be a fibber,” Hamish insisted, meeting his gaze. Scrutinizing, as though waiting for the joke to fall through. “Ain't no way a scrawny thing like you took him down.”

“Hey now,” Arthur scoffed, setting his beer down. “You ain’t the only one who’s taken a beast or two down. Damn thing took about six shots, and not to mention, he got a few licks of his own in. I got the scars to prove it.”

The damn bear had laid into him. Claws raking ripe across his back, the cuts deep. His cut had been deeper; a knife right into the beast’s throat, slicing it clean open. Coated in so much blood that Hosea about had a damn near heart attack. Fussing over him. Forcing him to rest while he had patched him back up. Arthur had been mighty sore for a few days; Hosea ever apologetic despite his insistence that all was well. And they had sold the pelt for a decent price. The trapper marveling at the hide and insisting on making a hat; from the head nonetheless.

Arthur had worn it once or twice, had scared the daylights out of John. The memory provoking a chuckle as he shared it with Hamish. About how he had hid behind his tent, jumping out at the younger man early one morning. It had been a long while since he had heard Marston squeal like that, a barrage of curses following while Arthur had revealed in his fright. Dutch hadn’t been amused; the commotion drawing him from his sleep at an early hour. Had proceeded to lecture Arthur for near an hour after, but ultimately, it had been worth it.

“What I would have given to see that,” Hamish laughed, “well, I must say that I’m glad it was him and not you. You know, if you come back this way, you should bring it. Least let me look the beast in the eye one last time. He was certainly a prize, that one. But with him gone, suppose it wont be long before another moves in, takes over the area. We grow 'em fat up here; lots of game, and not much here to cause them trouble. Give it a few seasons, and they'll be another monster wandering around here, mark my words.”

“Consider them marked,” Arthur finished off the rest of the beer. The reflection of the fire dancing off the glass as he set it back down. The warmth chased away the chill of the night, rain drumming on the windows. They had just gotten inside before it let loose. The wind kicking up a notch. Arthur wouldn’t lie; he was glad he had come.

Not only was Hamish’s company pleasing, but it was nice to be out of the weather. His cabin, while small, was rustic. A bit of a homely charm to it. Filled with an alluring aroma of herbs and earthy tones. He felt...relaxed. Found himself nodding. The lack of sleep, along with a full belly lulling him into gentle weariness.

Hamish must have noticed; Arthur hadn't said anything. Perhaps it was the lull of conversation the man noticed, the crackling of the fire occupying the silence between. But the man let out a groan as he moved to his feet, and bade him a good night, and soon after Arthur found himself alone. The couch promised to him, the frame pressed up against one wall just beneath the window. Not as comfortable as he had been in Strawberry, but far more compelling than the hard ground at Clemens.

He settled in, his hat over his head, brim pulled low to block out the light from the fire. Wondering. Wondering to what the next day would bring. Planning to depart early. Make a stop by Seamus. Make his way south. Make his way to Saint Denis. 

Find the others.

That was his plan. And come hell or high water; he was determined to be with them by the next day’s end.

* * *

By the end of the fourth day, Dutch finally had budged and admitted that something was wrong. Had sent the troops scattering, the boys scouring in all directions in hopes of finding something. Yet there was nothing to be found; Arthur had disappeared. And by the week’s end, they had all but given up hope.

There was no body to bury.

Just a few heartfelt words said around the fire, a morose atmosphere settling over them in those passing days. It hit Hosea harder than he thought possible. By the second day, the man had taken residency in Arthur’s tent, had slowly packed his things away. Each one bringing forth a new memory, his small collection of items from the past twenty years welling new emotions within him. The portrait of the three of them was the only thing he kept. The only picture he had of the man.

Arthur had been the first.

A young boy of fourteen, shriveled and sick and frightened. Beaten down the cruelties of the world and so convinced there was nothing else to be had. His fright all but covered by anger because it was all he had to give. All of that melting, disappearing once he learned how to trust. A youthful enthusiasm that morphing into eagerness, an open book ready to be filled when they had drawn him out of his shell.

The odd couple and their unruly son. That was what people had called them. And for good reason.

Arthur had a tenancy for trouble.

Was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. Damn was he ever a wild one. His curiosity causing more trouble than it was often worth. The boy had gotten himself into one situation or another, and in the passing years had learned well enough how to get himself back _out_ of trouble.

Even so, he had given him and Dutch the run around; there had been a few heart attacks and several potential early graves that had been dug. Hosea had spent more than one night worrying over the boy when he had been taken by a fever. Had sped him to a doctor’s yet another time after he had busted an arm. Had all but pulled his hair out the time Arthur had fallen in a river.

Yet the man seemed to have marvelous luck. Skirting death more times than Hosea was comfortable with. Brushed off causalities like they were nothing more than specks of dust. Until now.

They didn’t even know what had happened.

Days spent searching and nothing to show for it. The few O’Driscolls they did happen across knew nothing, and paid for it with their lives. Their screams echoing heavily in his mind. Hosea wouldn’t take it back. Wouldn’t change things. Would kill every last one until he got an answer if had to be. Had told Dutch as much.

The man, calming him. A hand placed on his shoulder. Sympathizing and comforting. Rationalizing that they couldn’t. He loved Arthur too. Arthur had also been like son to him. And they hadn’t done right by him.

That knowledge perhaps the worst of them all.

They should have tried harder. They should have acted sooner. Should have _known_ the moment Arthur didn’t show that something was amiss.

“ _They probably killed him that night, Hosea.”_

Dutch’s speculation hadn’t been reassuring. Hosea tried his best to _not_ think of it, but his thoughts were consumed.

Had it been quick?

Had they tortured him?

Had he suffered?

Did he die, thinking that no one cared about him?

The last of those the worst. He knew of the demons that Arthur battled, the doubt and uncertainty that had been planted in his mind all those years ago. Arthur always unsure, perhaps unaware, of how others cared for him. Thinking as though he was of no importance. Not realizing just _how_ important he truly was; least to him. Those thoughts left him ill. Thoughts he couldn’t bear to hang onto.

Thoughts sped away as they were forced to flee.

The arrival of Milton and Ross spurring them on. As did the disappearance of Jack. Storming Braithwaite Manor, burning it the ground. It had felt intoxicating, the suppressed rage breaking free. The anger that had been brewing the past days finally having a release. The hurt, all under a guise of something else, finding an outlet.

Even Dutch had commented on his anger. Anger that Hosea brushed off, his focus on finding Jack. On packing things up, on getting the hell out of the nightmare that was Clemens Point. Into yet a new hellhole that was Shady Belle. A croc-infested swamp adorned with mosquitoes and drowned in humidity.

His lungs ached.

Burned as though he swallowed fire. His coughs keeping him up at night, though he hardly noticed. Sleep evaded him anyway. If Dutch noticed the bags under his eyes the man didn’t comment. Instead he smoked a cigar, a smile on his face as he described in full detail the unscrupulous meeting he had held with Bronte.

The man had gone into town earlier with John and Micah. Had been gone most of the day and part of the night. At least they had found Jack. The boy safe, back in his mother’s arms. Hosea had mustered up the smile, had felt the smallest twinge of relief, but that had been about it. Because something bitter was growing inside of him. Something that was dark and cruel and so unkind that he was afraid to let it slip.

Dutch had given everything to bring Jack back.

Hadn’t done a damn thing for Arthur.

Hadn’t even left the camp, too intent on allowing others to search. If he didn’t know better, he’d assume that Dutch didn’t care. A feat for a man that claimed he cared perhaps too much. And the irony of it all burned deep inside of him.

He was angry.

More than angry...and Dutch didn’t notice. Dutch didn’t care, it seemed. Too wrapped up in his own thoughts. Elated at the prospect of a party. Had mused on getting a new suit. Had suggest the same for Hosea. The suggestion falling on deaf ears, but he shrugged. Couldn't find it in him to argue.

So he'd get all gussied up. He'd go to this party, go through the motions. It was better than sitting here, stewing in his own thoughts. Better than letting these wild ideas fester and grow inside his head. The hurt, he knew, would eventually go away. Would morph into something different. Something muted.

It had with Bessie.

At least this time he wasn’t getting himself drunk. No longer chasing the bottom of a bottle. God how he wanted to though. To simply give in, to no longer feel the pain. To drown the hurt in intoxication. But he couldn’t stomach it, not like he used to. And there were already one too many drunks in camp.

No...he had tried. Had tried to get Arthur reconsider this life. To pull out before it was too late. The man hadn’t shown much interest in that, but Hosea had it in mind to keep trying. Far too late for that now. But there were others. There was still hope. And he would keep trying.

Once he got himself under control.

So he’d let himself hurt, if only for a while longer. Let that pain dwindled, let it wilt like foliage in the passing of winter. And once it was muted, he’d keep pushing.

The celebration of Jack’s return lasted well into the morning. Hosea one of the last few who finally gave in, determined to get at least a few hours of rest. Found himself drifting in the early hours as fools drunkenly stumbled to their feet. The women, busy at chores under Grimshaw’s thumb. The conversations brief and jumbled, his addled mind only catching bits and pieces.

Could hear Karen bemoaning her chores. Could hear Tilly telling the other her misery was well justified. Could hear Mary-Beth, asking after Kieran. The man supposedly gone, unseen by the others.

Hosea was too tired to care. Hurt too much to even try. His heart too heavy. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. Because he did; cared about everyone here. But he had cared about Arthur more than he had the others.

Arthur had been the first.

Arthur had been his favorite.

To say anything else, would have been a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hamish and Arthur are great, are they not? At least Arthur is having a good time. 
> 
> Hosea...not so much...the poor guy


	10. Kieran

He left early that morning.

Arthur stayed for a cup of coffee, owing to Hamish’s insistence, but no longer. He bade the man farewell with a faint promise of meeting up in the future; of stopping by again for a fishing trip. He liked Hamish more than most, and the offer spending more time with the man was something he was eager to take him up on, despite the fact he wasn't much of a fisherman. He was almost tempted to go just then; had things been different, maybe he wouldn't have left O'Creaghs run at all. That kind of idyllic wild life appealed to him in ways he couldn't explain. Were it not for the worries brewing in his mind, or the fear that settled in his chest, not knowing if they were okay, what all had happened, or if Jack was even-

There were too many thoughts. Too many questions with not enough answers. Too many worries, and no appeasement. Only faint whispers to where they had gone. Vague indications to what had taken place. And a yearning...a burning desire to see them. To be back _with_ them. 

It was strange, when he really brought himself to think about it. He was gone more often than not as of late. Hell, he had disappeared for weeks at a time, chased down and led back like some stray dog more than once. As though he had forgotten his way; as if he could. Dutch, Hosea, Grimshaw, John...the rest of them were about the only family he had. The only family he knew.

He would always return.

Sure as the sun rose and set, that was where he belonged. Whether that was back out west, far south in the belly of the swamps, or hell, even in the far-reaching islands of tropical paradise that Dutch liked to dream about; long as he was with them, that was all that mattered.

The roads were quiet; he made good time, slowing only when the reached Emerald Ranch, quietly praising Dakota for his effort, the mustang weary beneath him. The sun was just cresting the hills as they rode through, blanketing the land in a warm, golden glow, chasing away frost from the night. Farmers and ranchers alike bidding him welcome as he passed by, slowly going about their chores. Arthur returning said greetings, keeping up appearances. He had to admit that there was a certain amount of charm to be found within the ranch despite the sketchy origins that shrouded the place. Far more quaint than the likes of Valentine, or the dourness that consumed Rhodes.

Of course, that wasn't to say that Emerald Ranch didn't have its own share of problems. Seamus being just one, the man waiting with a knowing smile on his face as Arthur approached. It didn't last long. That smile of his falling into a frown as Arthur handed him his share. Knowing maybe that this wasn't the promised amount. Seamus glowered at him, mouth open, ready to complain. Until Arthur shot him a glare.

There were only a few who ever challenged him. And most didn't live long enough to regret it. Problems he swept under rug, or rather left to rot in the bushes. Given all that had happened, he didn't have much an issue of doing the same here if need to be. Seamus must have known. The man weighing his options before pointedly deciding to not say anything as he turned away.

A decidedly good move, Arthur mused. For more than one reason.

Last thing he needed was more trouble; even a small spit of land like this in the midst of nowhere could dredge up the law within a few short minutes. He already had a bounty in multiple states, and given his situation he did not need another. He also had to consider the fact that despite Seamus' sketchy nature, he was an associate, and those were often difficult to come by. Dutch, and certainly Hosea, would without a doubt be disappointed in him for casting that aside. So it was a small comfort, but one nonetheless, that he left there without blood on his hands.

He headed south.

The lands once again changing. A heaviness in the air as the trees grew thick, choked out by vines and ivy. Arthur found himself looping through the Bayou, a feeble plan on saving some time. This road took him straight to Saint Denis, but more importantly, it kept him well away from Rhodes. A necessity seeing as he wasn’t keen to end up on the wrong side of a gun again.

But how he hated the swamps.

An absolutely hated born for these roads. The ground mucky and uneven, the paths littered with snakes and worse just off to the side if one drifted. Sometimes one didn't even need to wander; trouble would find come find any fool unfortunate to let down their guard. There wasn’t a lot that Dakota was afraid of, but the soft guttural growl of a gator was enough to cause him to fright. A snake could do the same; this large ass horse of his scared stupid by a tiny thing.

He loved that horse, god help him he did. He was a wild thing Arthur had caught up near Big Valley. His speckled gray coat turned dark at his legs, long dark locks spilling down and framing his face. Daktoa was stout; strong and stubborn, and he loved to run. Loved to jump. He had flat out beat The Count in a race, had cleared an entire row of fences in one go, his agility unmatched. Not too mention the beast had given Micah a sound kick once when the man had slapped the creature on the rump. That had been a delight to watch, the man stumbling to his feet, covered in mud and curses breaking free. Had made a point to snap at the other whenever the man wandered too close.

Micah hated him. And Arthur loved him all the more for it.

Dakota had given him a tough time at first too. Had bucked him off a number of times, one of which was straight into a thicket that left him pulling spines out for the better part of a week. That aggression tamed though once he realized Arthur hadn’t been out to hurt him. Had grown fond his presence, and seemed to enjoy their escapades. At night, when they were out under the stars on their own, Dakota was often curl up near him, head resting in his lap. Or pressed right through his tent in poor weather. Often woke him in the early morning, nibbling at his hair, eager to be on the road once more.

Yes...Dakota was a favorite of his. Maybe not quite as good Boadicca had been, but he was close second. The mustang faltering, pulling him from his thoughts as they made their way through the murky grounds. An ambling gait now, slowed even more by the fog that had moved in.

A thick blanket obscuring his vision, chasing away the sun. A chill settling over his skin, Dakota twitching beneath him. Urged on by quiet reassurances, sweetened with a peppermint. Fingers combing through tangles in his mane as they trotted along the path. The frustration growing in him. Any time they had made up was now lost as they ventured on. Curse this fog...

The path veered to the left. Dakota snorting, jumping a little at something unseen in the swampy waters. The mustang calming at his gentle words. Those words faltering as the shape came into view. Large and boxy, partially blocking the road. Arthur slowed him even more, almost coming to a stop. There were a few hesitant steps forward, the curse breaking through the air just then.

“Of all the things, I can not believe, my luck turned sour like curdled milk.”

“Is there a problem?”

Arthur couldn’t help but wonder, nudging Dakota forward. Didn’t seem like much of a threat. The wagon easily seen now that they were drawing near. Half off the road, a wheel pulled off under the weight, caught in the soft ground. The man, standing there in the muck, trying in vain to lift it. His weary head raised, tense apprehension as Arthur drew near. The nervousness fading in the next moment.

“Well, do I believe my eyes or not? Out of all the souls that could have come this way, I did not suspect to see the likes of you.”

Arthur nearly laughed.

He knew this man. Had crossed paths with him before. The doctor sat on the edge of Rhodes, broken and desolate. The thieves none too happy about a black man and his tinctures. Apparently they had thought it best they teach the man a lesson, and had liberated his possessions. It hadn’t taken Arthur but a minute to decide to rectify the situation, tracking the wagon clear to Macomb’s End. Taking it back had been easy, and Alphonse had been more than grateful. Arthur knew he had made a difference in the man’s life, but truth be told, hadn’t thought about the man since then.

Not until now.

From one problem to the other it seemed. His wagon gone afoul of the soft mud, the wheel stuck so deep in the soft terrain it had popped right off like a chicken’s leg. He slid from the saddle, feet squelching in the mud as he rounded the wreckage.

“You know, these paths aren’t the best for something this large and heavy,” Arthur told him, hands running along the structure. It was stuck fast. Even between the two of them it would be a struggle to get it out.

“I think I may have found that out on my own,” Alphonse agreed, hands resting on his hips. “I left Saint Denis just this morning, and I wasn’t exactly in the mood to grace Rhodes with my presence given what took place the last time I ventured through there. Perhaps if my addled mind wasn’t so strung out on drink I might have understood the gravity of my errors before it came to such a state. And what you must think I can only wonder; first no wagon, and now one that is rightly broken.”

“Ah, it ain’t broke,” Arthur reassured him. “Between you and me, we can fix her right up. Go on and grab that side and we’ll see what we can do.”

He had fixed wagons before. They were difficult to come by, hard to steal and expensive to buy. So they had to do what they could to hold them together. Especially given how often they traveled, and the paths they took weren’t always the best. But usually there was more than two of them attempting such a feat.

The wagon was heavy. Cumbersome, slipping free of their grip more than once. But with some effort they managed. Arthur having to shift between holding the wagon and sliding the wheel back into place. It took a few attempts, but soon enough it was on, and they coaxed the horses forward and back onto stable land.

“I sure do wish I had more to give you,” Alphonse nodded towards him as he checked the wagon over. “That is not just once but twice now that you have saved my livelihood. I am not much a religious man, but I do so say there is something bigger in the works for you to have come back into my life again at precisely the right moment.”

“Don’t think too much of it,” Arthur shook of his speculations. He didn’t rightly enjoy people thinking things like that. He forced an amicable smile, “I ain’t doing anything but passing through. You just do me a favor and stay away from the edge of the road; mud ain't the only thing you need to worry about in these parts, you know.”

The last part barely said when the scream pierced the air, as though to prove a point. The cry, echoing through the mist, fading. Starting again, a pained howl that ripe with agony, and it sent a chill straight down his spine and into his gut. Near him, Alphonse shifted, the worry evident in his voice.

“I do not wish to know what horrible fate befell that poor individual.”

Nor did he, but as the shrieks continued, he couldn't turn away. Someone needed help, and they needed it now. Dakota was nervous, shaken by the keening, muscles tense beneath him as he mounted. The gun, heavy in his hands.

“You seem to always prefer running towards trouble,” Alphonse muttered, watching him. “I think it might be for the best if I let you go on ahead, while I take to the road of my own.”

“I think you might be right on that,” Arthur agreed, the only thing said as he spurred Dakota on. Hardly a farewell; not that there was much time for one. The cries were easy to follow. Growing louder as he cantered down the path. Sobs splitting the air, a worn voice begging, pleading.

“Please, no-I-I told you I d-didn't have a choice!”

“You think Colm cares about that?” the response punctuated with laughter. The mere name, however, set something cold and hard inside of him. O'Driscolls...

He had been a the mercy of them before. Shot, beaten tortured. Left to die, and nearly had faced such a fate. The anger in him growing as he approached, dark memories dredging up, bitter and fresh. He’d kill every last one given the chance. Kill them all for everything he had suffered. For what he was still going through- he could see them now, shadowy figures that knelt in the mud. The victim held on the ground between them. The light glowing eerily in the heavy fog, the lantern glinting off metal. A knife, he realized, held in one hand. The blade, dripping with blood.

They didn't even have time to flinch.

The two fools dead long before they hit the ground. Perfect holes formed in their head. They slumped over and unto the prone body. The victim even more distraught, scrambling backwards, shying away from his approach, blubbering and pleading. Begging.

“Easy now, you're alright. They dead now, ain't gonna hurt you anymore,” Arthur reassured him as he would a wounded creature. He swung a leg to slide from the saddle. The man's desperate attempt to escape ceasing, his head snapped up towards him just then.

“A-a-rthur?”

He recognized his voice now. A curse falling from his lips as he closed the gap quickly, the dampness soaking into knees as he knelt. The man's eyes wide in either pain or shock, or both perhaps, given the copious amount of blood that drenched his skin. Cuts marred his face, deep and grotesque, more blood coating his front. Stained hands reaching out, grabbing onto him as though he might fade away. Breaths coming fast, his chest heaving.

What the hell had they done to the poor fool? Arthur knew far too well the kind of cruelties the O'Driscolls were keen on-hell he had suffered it first hand...but even his own wounds had seemed a mere trifle in comparison to what Kieran had been subjected to. It was as though they were merely toying with him; a game to see how far they could push the boy without killing him. A game Kieran had very clearly lost. For them to be so wantonly violent with someone who used to ride with them...

“Arthur!” he gasped, fingers digging into the fabric of his vest, clinging tight, “You-can't be, you-”

“It's alright,” he did his best to calm him. Hand wrapping about his shaking ones, soothing him as best he could. His mind racing, trying to piece it altogether. Kieran out here on his own-why? How? The kid never left camp alone, was too frightened, scared of his own shadow. Had admitted more than once his fear of being snatched by Colm. Fears that had all come true now. His worries justified-looking far worse than Arthur had ever felt, or so he was sure to believe. The kid might be safe now, but he still needed help.

“Let's come on then,” he forced the words out. Forced himself to take action, “We'll get you taken care of.”  
  


He placed a hand hesitantly on his shoulder, unsure of where he should touch, of where he _could_ touch. Kieran was shaking under his hold, still watching him through wide eyes. “Y-you can't be-you...we thought-thought you were dead!”

“I ain’t dead,” he reassured the kid.

He wanted to say the revelation was a surprised, but truthfully it wasn’t. Given the circumstances of his departure, and how long he had been gone it wasn’t a wonder. They hadn’t gotten his letter, hadn’t any idea he had gotten away. Surmised the rest would be just as shocked as Kieran was now. A thing to worry about later. Arthur wrapped one arm about his shoulders, trying to prompt him to his feet, but the kid wouldn't move. Still too focused on him. Eyes far too wide, wounds still bleeding far too much.

A distraction.

He needed a distraction. Arthur doing his best to keep him talking, to get him to focus on anything save for the pain; the shock.

“How’d you end you way out out here?”

It got a response; the man groaning, whimpering in pain. The words coming out, jumbled and strange.

“Ain’t no time, Arthur...t-the others, O-O’Driscolls-”

“No one's gonna hurt you,” Arthur hushed him quietly, doing his best to try and staunch the bleeding. If he could get a handle on it, there'd be a chance. Saint Denis wasn't that far off, and he knew he could get some help there. Then perhaps learn where the others had gotten off to-that thought interrupted at a new sound. Arthur glancing up at the rumble that came his way. Surprised, if anything, to see Alphonse come into view. The man drew the wagon to a stop, hopping down quick like a hare upon seeing them.

“Thought you didn't run towards trouble,” Arthur mused, watching as he came near them. Grateful he had come.

“There is always time for a first,” Alphonse stated, kneeling near them. “Heard the gunfire and thought to myself that I would rightly never be forgiven if I had gone off and left my benefactor to fend for himself. Seems like you did well enough on your own, though I can not say the same for these poor souls.”

“Well, you can consider them the devil,” Arthur muttered, before motioning to Kieran. “You think you can help my friend here?”

Kieran looked bad still. His breaths coming out in shallow gasps, his eyes half-lidded. Soft whimpers of pain filtering out in the air. More blood on him than in him, it seemed. A gruesome sight, no doubt, but Alphonse didn't seemed perturbed in the least.

“Sure thing; I got just about everything in my wagon. Let’s get him on back there and I'll have him right as new.”

“You hear that, O'Driscoll? Man says you gonna be just fine.”

“Ain't n-no O'Driscoll,” Kieran spat back, proving he still had some spit left in him. Arthur let a chuckle, perhaps due to worry more than anything else, a hand edged under his shoulders to help him up. A groan wrenched from him as Arthur carried him over towards the wagon, Alphonse already waiting.

“A-arthur, you g-got to,” he breathed, fingers would tight in his vest, “Colm’s going a-after the o-others, I-I didn’t mean t-to, I’m s-sorry.”

“What you talking about?” he breathed quietly, setting Kieran down. Meeting his gaze, eyes laced with pain, a hint of fear. His mouth, hung open, closing. Jaw working, trying to make the words come.

“Colm, h-he.. I-I didn’t mean t-to say anything, but-but t-they, oh A-arthur, he’s bringing a w-whole lot of them. Said he w-was gonna...”

  
“Where?” he pressed, the pieces falling together. Understanding.

Colm was going after the gang.

And they weren’t none the wiser.

How Colm had gotten to Kieran, he still wasn’t sure, and he ought to be angry the kid had squealed, but he could be angry later. Right now he other concerns.

“Place called S-shady Belle,” came the heavy reply, flinching as Alphonse began to clean the blood from him. “I-it’s n-not too far f-from here, i-if you f-follow-”

“I know the place.”

The familiarity ringing through him. He should have known. The place, ripe for the picking; he and Lenny had gone to the rundown plantation before, had cleared it of scum that had inhabited it, taking with them a wagon full of rifles. God he was such a fool; it was perfect-hidden off the road, close enough to the city for the odd job here and there. Of course the gang would have gone there... And Kieran was right-it weren’t too far away.

He had to hurry.

He needn't ask; Alphonse promising to look after the other, to get him back to Shady Belle after. Arthur not wasting any more time. Dakota propelled down the path even while he was still pulling himself into the saddle. The mustang answering his push, hooves tearing into the soft ground as they sped south.

Shady Belle.

He was finally going to see the others. A tumult of emotions washing over him. After all these weeks, he was finally going to be home. Perhaps not as he first intended, the fear gripping him along with the anger. Afraid of what he was to find. Afraid of what would be waiting for him.

God damn the O’Driscolls. God damn Colm. _God damn_ the whole lot of them...

He could only hope he made it in time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, poor Kieran.
> 
> I couldn't let him suffer the same fate as in game, but he still isn't looking all that good.
> 
> Now Arthur just needs to get to the others before something worse happens...
> 
> Bit of an early post, seeing as I got work early in the morning, so enjoy! I'll see you guys next week ;)


	11. Shady Belle

Shady Belle loomed above him, a shell of what it once used to be many eons ago. He and Lenny hadn’t stayed long. Hadn’t the time to comb things over. Had grabbed the wagon laden with rifles and driven out there shortly after they had disposed of the degenerates that had taken residency up there.

Now it had been taken over by the gang.

The thoughts turning in his mind, frustration mounting there. A curse playing on his lips. Something inside of him knowing that he should have figured that out sooner. Might have figured it out had he actually put the effort into it. He could be angry with himself later. Right now his focus was on Colm. On the O’Driscolls.

On the gunfire that split the still air, echoing like thunder in his ears.

Chaos. A cacophony of wails and screams drowned out in rapid fire. There was a wave of men, in front of him, pushing their way forward. Figures spotted across the grounds, hiding behind rocks and upturned crates. Pressed against anything that might afford to give them the smallest bit of cover. Eyes narrowing in, watching as they scrambled. The lot of the caught unaware.

His heart hammered in his chest. Breath hard to come by.

Fear spiking as he saw John race across an open space, Jack tucked fast against his chest. Then Bill standing fast near him, his rifle answering the fire sent his way. O’Driscoll after O’Driscoll falling as bullets met their marks.

The Van Der Lindes were well know for their fighting prowess.

Superior marksmanship, keen eyes that knew how to hit marks with efficiency. A result of Dutch and Hosea both spending time and passing their trade unto men and women alike, arming them, preparing them in case of a situation precisely like this.

Whereas Colm merely tossed a gun at any open hand. Didn’t even know half his men; frankly didn’t care if they could tell one end of a weapon from the other. To him, men were easily replaced, lured in a a handful of dollars. Let loose into the world, young, and foolish. Guess they had to be if they were willing to follow the man. And Colm…

He couldn’t see Colm.

Despite Kieran’s insistence, the man was nowhere to be seen. Didn’t even have the nerve to launch his own attack. Just as well...Arthur would settle for killing any O’Driscoll, or the whole lot of them. His own Lancaster ready, firing from behind. Hitting his own marks. Taking care to not be hit in return.

It took a moment. For them to realize. For them to understand they were being attacked from all sides. More fire raining from the front. Arthur’s pinpoint shots from the back. Someone had flanked them, was gunning them down from the side now.

And just like that, they broke.

Turning their horses and bolting. Calling the attack off. Too scared and too scattered to try and keep pushing. Favoring their own lives over the stupidity forced on them by Colm.

He should have let them go.

Arthur had made it. He was here. He was okay, and the O’Driscolls were no longer a threat. No longer _his_ concern. The others were. Knew the possibility of injury or worse resided there in that broken-down hovel. Knew they had seen him, would want to see him, knew there would be a thousand questions.

But it burned.

That rage in him. The bitter seed that had long ago been planted in him that night by Colm. His words echoing in his head, drowning all rationale out like thunder. This had been Colm’s doing.

_All_ of this.

Colm had been the one to make him suffer. Had taken him, had tortured him, had left him for dead. Had tried to bring ruin to the rest of the gang. Had all but tortured Kieran and once again attempted finish them off. All these years, all the crap they had been through. All the suffering...

Dutch often told him they couldn’t afford revenge.

Arthur didn’t find it in himself to care.

Not at the moment. Not when the rage burned so bright it threatened to blind him. Only one thought in his mind then. Because they had hurt him and the others for the last time. He would make sure of it.

He turned Dakota around. Charged after their retreating forms. Shapes disappearing into the fog, faint outlines weaving in and out of trees. Pushing their way east. Desperate for escape. The gap between them closing. Hooves tearing into the ground, Dakota pushing faster. The first one going down, an echo splitting through the air.

A second one following soon after. The rest, perhaps half a dozen, pushing north now. Shots fired back at him, their aim clumsy, panic gripping them tight as they were chased down by none other than the devil himself. Surely they could feel death nipping at their heels. Arthur reloaded, gun brought back up.

His leg burned. A searing pain.

Felt almost like a bite that went straight to the bone. The pain digging deep, a gasp torn from him. Dakota flinching, faltering for but a moment. It gave him a chance, a moment to turn. To answer with fire of his own. Knowing that somehow, one of the bastards had gotten behind him.

Only to hold his fire. Seeing Bill as he raced up on Brown Jack. Javier close behind him, Boaz keeping pace. And Micah trailing, Baylock foaming at the mouth. The trio with their guns raised. Insults spilling through the air. Arthur let out a snarl, ready to lash out. To call them the fools that they were; cause in their efforts to finish of the O’Driscolls, they had accidentally hit him.

Or so he thought.

The next bullet hitting Dakota.

The horse screaming as it took off in a blind panic, no longer needing encouragement to flee. Fresh blood weeping from his side as he raced. Arthur barely able to hang on, his chase forgotten. He was no longer the hunter, but instead the hunted.

“What the hell you think you doing?” he hollered over his shoulder. New anger. A fear creeping him, ducking as bullets went over his head. His heart hammering, his mind racing. They were missing him on purpose, he realized; they could easily bring him down if they so chose. So what, then, was their intention.

And more importantly, why?

“You think Dutch would just let it go, cowpoke? You joining up with Colm?” Micah hollered out at him; the man leading the pack now. What in the hell were they getting at? Surely they didn't believe..they couldn't....

“You gone crazy? I ain’t with Colm!” More of plead than an explanation. Wanting them to understand. _Needing_ them to understand. 

He would, if the damn fools were rational, stop and actually explain. Tell them they were nothing more than fools who had done lost their heads. But they didn’t seem rightly in a conversational mood. Too wrapped up in their own beliefs. Too focused on nothing else other than _hurt_. On vengeance. He swore, holding tight as Dakota raced. It was one thing he had the others did not. 

Speed.

The distance between them increasing. Shots fired, coming close, but not hitting. Yet another assurance that they were out to maim and not kill. Not outright. They would, undoubtedly given the time. He had been with the group long enough to know. Had seen them torture their fair share of men. They could be just as cruel as Colm. And he had no desire to suffer through that. His leg already bearing the brunt of their cruelty. Blood seeping down his calf, pooling inside his boot. Dakota’s hide stained red as they pressed on.

Van Horn rising before them now, rounding the corner, the lighthouse standing tall. An eyesore on yet an even uglier town. He had a moment, just a brief moment where he was concealed from their view. And he took his chance.

Slid from the saddle, a grimace as his leg bore the brunt of his weight. Dakota sent running, a faint promise he would catch up with him once all this mess was over. Provided he got himself out of here, the reality of the situation weighing on him. The rifle clasped in his hands as he limped towards the rocks. Pressed out of view only moments before they came.

Too late.

They had seen him. Had circled back around, threats spilling from their lips, the threats all to heavy in the air. Arthur felt himself swallow, tongue like lead in his mouth. Trying to once again reason. To rationalize with them. To make them understand.

“It ain’t what it looks like!”

“Come on, face us like a man,” Bill was the one respond. The anger evident in his voice as though he had been personally wronged. “Thought you were braver than this, hiding like a coward! Throwing your lot in with _him_.”

“I done told you that I ain’t,” Arthur spat out, “man nearly skinned me alive. Why the hell would I be runnin’ with him?”

“That the story you want us to believe?”

Micah this time.

“You up and disappear, vanish without a trace. Show up weeks later, fit as a fiddle, trying to gun us all down? And you want us to believe you’re the one who’s been wronged? After all Dutch has done for you, this is how you go about repaying him? You just never had the faith, did you? A few sour jobs and you all but turn against him.”

“I ain’t the one who’s turned against anyone,” he ground out, risking a glance over his shoulder. He could see them, slowly coming his way. Guns drawn. Only a matter of time before it got nasty. His back against the rock. The water ahead of him. He’d be gunned down the moment he tried to run. Torn apart slowly; a fitting death for a perceived traitor.

They didn’t tolerate rats.

“You boys had better think, 'fore you do something we all bound to regret,” Arthur hissed, his voice low as he peeked over his shoulder, watching them. Trying once more to convince them.

“Bill, Javier-you know this ain't me. You know that I'd never-”

“Do they?” Micah cut him off before he could finish. A smugness in his voice, “Cause lately, I ain't so sure anyone knows you. A man who runs off all day, who won't say a word of where he's been, or what he's doing? Who knows what you might be hiding?”

A handful of truth scattered among lies. Turning it all around, foisting the doubt back out into the open. Though he watched Javier falter, the gun held uneasily in his grasp. His face, dropping, wrought in confusion. Next to him, Bill only steeled his nerves, gripping his gun tighter as he snarled. They drew closer, the gap between them fading. They were but a few steps away now.

His chest was tight, his heart bouncing against his ribs. After all this time, after all the shit he had been through, this was how he was going to go. Killed by his own. Branded a traitor, the truth of things never known.

He could fight his way out.

The notion stuck fast in his head. Knowing that out of all of them, he was the better shot. He could easily take them all down if so desired.

But he didn’t.

Couldn't.

The thought heavy in his heart. No matter the outcome, he wouldn't kill them. Better him, then them, he reasoned. The gang needed every gun to ensure their survival. Three guns were far better than his one. His one that would most likely never be accepted given what they thought.

No…there was no coming back from this. Wasn't much chance of even getting out of this.

But maybe...he just might be able to bluff. Might be able to find a way to freedom. Shock them. Startle them, enough to break free. He had fought with Bill enough times, knew the man was frightened of him. Javier, perhaps might scare. Micah...too hard to tell.

Whatever he did, he would need to get the hell out of here. Find someplace safe, regroup with his thoughts. Figure out a plan. Leave them to calm down, return when they weren't running high on adrenaline.

It was as good a plan as any. His fingers wound tight around the gun. Leveled it. A breath held deep in his chest.

It was now or never. He pushed himself to his feet. Swung around the rock, eyes tracing down the sight. Finger resting just on the trigger.

Van Horn was wrapped in gunfire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur can't catch a break, can he?
> 
> Probably wasn't the best idea to go riding in, then chasing back out after the O'Driscolls without so much of a word.
> 
> One can only wonder to what the others are thinking....
> 
> :)
> 
> See you Friday!


	12. Van Horn

The shot came from the north.

Decidedly not from any of them.

His finger was still resting on the trigger, despite his flinch; the sound startling him. Startled the others too, watching the three of them flinch as dirt scattered in front of them. All of them turned quickly at the new threat, their previous feud forgotten. Their guns were wavering, unsure of where to aim but aiming nevertheless. Ducking out of instinct. Arthur still had his gun ready, breaths heavy in his chest.

He didn't hold the same worry. Arthur had seen him, out of the corner of his eye. Thought at first it was nothing more than a illusion conjured by madness. The man sat atop a golden horse, looked far more intimidating than Arthur ever thought possible. Hell, even he felt a twinge of apprehension; a pang of fear, though it quickly ebbed. The man's voice even more threatening, his tone low as he spoke, as though here was addressing a young child.

“You fellers picked the wrong place for a schoolyard row,” he gestured towards Van Horn with a toss of his head, “That whole town is drunk and angry; they ain’t too fond of troublemakers. Less so of outsiders. If I was you I’d move along ‘fore they decide to tear you limb from limb for just breathin’ wrong on their land.”

The threat was almost amusing, coming from him. Arthur might have appreciated it more if he wasn’t so wrapped up in anger and fear. Pain most of all. His leg, quivering beneath his weight. He ignored it, pushed through the searing bite as best he could. Kept it off his face so they wouldn’t capitalize on the weakness. Kept his stance, his gun ready if they so much as moved. Still unwilling to be the first to engage, but more willing now, seeing that he was no longer alone.

God, he had never been so happy to see anyone as he was to see Hamish. His heart still a flurry within his chest, though calming, if only just a hair.

Though he was thoroughly surprised to see him here. It was as though the man had walked out of a dream. Or a nightmare, seeing that furious look on his face. He had seen the gentler side of the man— the jokes, the sweet talk to Buell, the overwhelming kindness— and even he was unnerved by him now. He wondered what the others thought— gun gripped tight in his hands, edging Buell towards the trio. Buell, too, seemed in on the act. Hoof digging into the dirt with a snort, exuding an air of anger and danger as well. The hole torn in the ground mere inches from where they had been standing was a surefire warning. The horses edgy, wanting to bolt. Barely held under control.

“This doesn’t concern you, old man,” Micah spat out finally. The only one of the three able to find his voice, apparently.

“Concerns me plenty,” Hamish was not cowed in the least by Micah’s gruff reply. The weapon turned straight on him. “Here I was, enjoying my afternoon, only for the lot of you to come and ruin it. I figure its high time for you fellers to mosey on out.”

“Or _what?_ ”

The challenge there. Holding firm in the air. A beat of silence, before Micah let out a laugh, clearly enjoying it all.

“You ain’t scarin no one, _old timer._ Hell, I ain’t even sure you got the— ”

Baylock reared as bullet scraped by his side, severing the cinch of the saddle. Micah let out a curse as he tumbled off, landing hard in the dirt. The horse skittering a few feet down the path, agitated, the saddle hanging loose off of his back. Hamish readied the gun, hardly a change in his voice. Annoyance, if anything. As though his bluster was simply exhausting.

“That there was a warning, and just about the only one you’ll get. Next one you get ‘tween the eyes, then one for each of your friends.”

The threat holding weight, settling uncomfortably between all of them. Micah cursing, a groan breaking free as he lay there. The others, watching, as though calculating their odds.

It was Javier who broke first, nodding towards Bill as he turned Boaz, hardly a glance in Arthur's direction. There was a deep frown on Bill’s face, a glare shot his way, but he followed. It left Micah, the man picking himself up from the ground, the anger set strong in his eyes, trying to calm Baylock and maneuver the saddle back in place despite the cut straps. Went to say something, but thought better of it as Hamish motioned with his gun, waving him off.

“This ain’t over yet, Morgan,” Micah hissed, pulling himself up into the saddle. “You show your face again, you a dead man. Dutch will see to it.”

The threat hanging in the air as Baylock was turned. One final glare shot his way before the man sped off. Arthur’s grip didn’t loosen on the gun until he was well out of sight. A deep sigh breaking free as he leaned against the rock.

“You okay?”

“Just dandy,” he swore, the anger deluging into shame. He let out a hiss of breath as the man came near. 

He didn’t much feel like meeting the Hamish's gaze, his eyes fixated instead on the ground below him, his mind racing. Trying to grasp onto the reality of the situation. There were too many things. Too many emotions to grab a hold of.

It was as if the word had slowed to a stop. His blood frozen within his veins.

His breath was stuck fast in his chest. He buzzed and burned and boiled with so many emotions that they melted together into one gray feeling, equally painful as it was numb. He tried for a moment to convince himself he’d heard wrong, he’d understood wrong, he’d simply been incapable of comprehending, turned for a minute because there was no _goddamned_ way.

Arthur curled into himself, trying to ignore the tremble into his shoulders. The ache in his leg. The burn in his chest.

The O’Driscoll’s.

If he could’ve opened his mouth without rising nausea, he surely would have laughed. For now though, he tried and failed to grab hold of any thought through the stifling waves that slogged through his mind like molasses.

There was some measure of irony. Dutch had taken long enough, all those years back, to instill the concept in him that he could recognize it with ease. _Everything_ he had done for them, and in some twist his homecoming led to his banishment.

Later, surely, he’d feel something concrete, something awfully thick and definitive, but for now he let himself drown in that murky gray emptiness and tried to quiet his breathing. Watching instead the blood slowly trickled down his limb, rivulets cascading over his boot and soaking into the ground below. Hamish, near him, clearing his throat. Arthur remembered just then that he wasn't alone. He cleared his throat, the words uneasy.

“Thanks-for all of that. How’d you-?”

“I found Dakota sauntering through town, covered in blood. Figured something was up. Don’t you worry none about him, got him tied just outside the saloon so he can’t go far. Say-if you don’t mind me asking, who were those fellas? Got them right angry by the looks of it. Didn’t seem to take too kind to you.”

“Well, I _thought_ they were family, but now I ain't so sure.”

“Family get like that sometimes,” Hamish shrugged, coming over towards him. The man sat against the same rock. “Had an aunt, the sweetest thing, until one day she just snapped. Beat my uncle over the head with a frying pan and tossed him in the hearth. Though I reckon my uncle was an ass, so maybe it ain’t quite the same.”

He gave Hamish an odd look. Unsure of what to think about that. Knew the man was trying his best to appease his worries. But Arthur doubted any story would accomplish that. He had spent so long trying to find the others, only to have just found them, and here they were all but trying to kill him. Had chased him off like a cur; all of them somehow convinced he was running with Colm.

“ _Could come run with me and make some real money.”_

An offer he had turned down. An offer he hadn’t even once entertained. But seemed as though the others thought he had. A new heaviness in his heart. The thoughts coming to him just then.

Clearly Colm’s plan had failed.

Arthur had speculated that Dutch had been wise enough to spot the trap. Had been smart enough to avoid it. Now he wondered- wondered if Dutch hadn’t come for other reasons. If Dutch had thought him a traitor. Come to think of it, Dutch had already accused him of it once.

“ _You’ll betray me in the end.”_

Had Dutch already written him off? Had Dutch not even come looking? His throat felt tight, unsure of which was worse. Dutch leaving him because he was expendable. Or Dutch leaving him because he thought him a traitor?

“That ain’t looking too good,” Hamish broke through his thoughts. He stared at the blood soaking into Arthur’s pants, face twisted in worry.

“Ain’t gonna kill me,” he mumbled softly, glancing down. The bullet hit in the meat of his calf. Painful, for sure, but nothing more than a burden. He’d have to dig it out, watch for infection, but considering how things had gone, he was lucky.

“Still best not to tempt fate; come on, let’s see if old Buell will let you ride him back into town.”

Arthur ignored the extended hand, forcing himself to limp up to the road. Trying to keep his thoughts at bay lest they run rampant and trample him a tumult of emotions. A thousand questions holding in his mind, a thousand more threatening to drown him. He chose, perhaps, the least relevant one. Preferring to focus on the mundane rather than serious.

“What you doing up this way anyhow? Bit far from home, ain’t it?”

“Left for Annesburg shortly after you took off; needed a few things, and had to drop my repeater off for some work,” he explained. “Decided to come down here for a few drinks; shithole of town up north doesn't have anything decent, and well, this place here is a nasty piece of work, but they serve a mean brandy. It’ll burn the hair right off your chest.”

Somehow he was able to chuckle. “I’ll have to keep that in mind,” he winced.

“Maybe we’ll come back here and have some, soon as we get you and your horse looked after. Reckon he ain’t too bad either. A few days of rest, and the two of you will no doubt be pickin’ fights with some other pissed-off miscreants.”

It was an attempt at humor. One that was brushed off. His face set grim as he mounted up on Buell. He was grateful that Hamish had been here. Knew that he owed the man his life, and possibly more, seeing as things would have not gone easy. His heart, fluttering dully in his chest, feeling all sorts of wrong. A new, pressing question, resting in his mind as they made their way towards town.

Where did he go from here?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hamish to the rescue! 
> 
> Didn't expect to see him again so soon, did you? 
> 
> Arthur oozes luck it seems. Least he does have others out there that care about him, and are willing to help out.
> 
> And admit it, you all wanted to see Micah dumped in the mud, am I right?
> 
> Ah, at any rate, I'll see all of yo on Tuesday. Have a lovely weekend :)


	13. Betrayal

Arthur was alive.

If he hadn’t seen it for himself, he would have been none the wiser. Would have written off anyone telling him the news as they had lost their mind. Because to him, Arthur had been anything but. It had taken him weeks to get there. To accept it. To come to terms with it, a daily battle with his emotions. Every mundane thing reminding him, unable to forget.

Then he had come. He _had_ been there. 

He was  _alive._

The revelation was overwhelming. Emotions torn in so many directions he didn’t know what to make of it. Heart still racing, his nerves trying to calm after the sudden attack that had rained down on them. One moment spent discussing Bronte, Dutch already brewing in anger at a botched job and edging for vengeance, and then the next they had been wrapped in purgatory.

At least none of them had been hurt.

They were shaken. Shaken like hell, and for more than one reason. Because he hadn’t been the only one to notice. Arthur’s sudden appearance. Nor his sudden disappearance. Dutch raving mad, verging on the edge of lunacy.

“He’s a god damn traitor, Hosea!”

“I don’t believe it,” he snapped in return. Wouldn’t believe it. Couldn’t. Knew there was reason behind it all. But Dutch wouldn’t have it. Hadn’t seemed to be tolerant of much lately. The man losing himself ever more as each day passed.

“Don’t be a damn fool- we _both_ saw it. He’s fallen in with those spineless cowards. Hell, who knows how long this-this _partnership_ has been going on,” he swept his hand through the air, a wild motion. Around them, the others scurried to clean up camp. Heads down, but peeking their way every so often. Focused in on their discussion, watching the battle of wits and yearning to see who would be victorious.

“And you saw wrong, I’m telling you,” Hosea spat out. “Arthur would never run with the likes of them.”

“And yet he was there,” Dutch returned, his voice turning gruff all the sudden. “Ain’t it funny, now that I actually think about it.”

“What is?” he wasn’t in the mood to play these games. Wasn’t much in the mood to handle Dutch, but there was little choice in that matter. If not him, then who? Hosea’s hands were braced on his hips, watching him, tense and ready as though he was waiting for the other to spring unannounced.

“We looked for him, Hosea,” Dutch said slowly. Angrily. As though making a point. “Didn’t find a trace of him. He vanished-”

“And we should have looked harder. I told you that there was something wrong with that parley,” Hosea reminded him, “told you that from the start I did.”

“Sure as hell,” he agreed, turning towards him. “Only one explanation for it all-we didn’t find anything because _he_ didn’t want anything found. He knows how to disappear, Hosea. Whole thing was planned from the beginning, I'm telling you-he probably would have taken them straight to Clemens Point had we still been there.”

“Don’t you dare,” he hissed, unwilling to listen to the drivel pouring forth from his lips. If Dutch thought he could just blindly accuse the boy of such a feat, he had another thing coming. “Arthur has followed us for more than twenty years, why the hell would he turn from us now?”

“Money, clearly. I mean, what the hell else could it be?” Dutch rolled his eyes haughtily, “You ever check those damn ledgers? Cause I have. Arthur contributes more than the rest of the camp combined- where the hell would he get that kind of money if not from _uncle_ Colm _._ ”

“Don’t be an idiot, Dutch,” Hosea let out a worn sigh, “There’s plenty of places he coulda come into some cash- you seen how often he goes out these days, it ain’t a stretch to think-“

“Ah, yes, his little _excursions_ ,” he scoffed. “What are the chances he just happens to favor going out on his own more often right when we end up in Colm’s neck of the woods? You ever notice he don’t say a single damn word about where he’s been? Only rarely comes back with leads, but oddly enough always has plenty of cash to spare. And how he’s all too happy to go out on other people’s jobs and filch money from them.”

“That’s _bullshit_ and you know it.”

“It all adds up, Hosea,” Dutch breathed, eyes glazed as he stared off into the distance, “You ain’t so blind that you can’t see that for yourself…..shit, he found Colter pretty damn quick- the one goddamned swath of civilization, and it just so happened to be spittin’ distance from the O’Driscoll’s. Hell, for all we know, he coulda been running with Colm for months- maybe years! I’d bet that’s why he was so keen to avoid the damn parlay to begin with- he didn’t want to risk being found out.”

“You know that ain’t it,” Hosea growled, refusing to entertain his thoughts. Wouldn’t chase after the wild notion that somehow had sprouted in Dutch’s mind. The man liked conspiracies, was fully convinced that more than one person was working against him, the entire reason for all their foiled plans. The truth of the matter was that it was their own stupidity; they were too loud, too brash, too reckless. But Dutch would never see that. It was just easier for him to have someone to blame.

Their conversation interrupted just then, the horses riding in. Javier in the lead, Bill shortly behind. Both their faces grim, but not as indignant as Micah, the man coming in moments later. The trio had followed the O’Driscolls out after the attack broke, intent to chase them off. And they looked less than pleased, his heart tightening. He had hoped, had expected for Arthur to come back with them.

But there was no sign of the man.

“Well?”

  
Dutch was the one to break the silence, watching them closely as they came over. Bill was shifting nervously, quiet, and it was Javier that spoke up first.

“We lost him around Van Horn.”

“Lost who?” Hosea pressed, worried now.

“Morgan, who else?” Micah shared his part as though it was obvious. “We had him pinned down there, but he’s got friends; damn bastard all but chased us off before we could finish him.”

“You did _what_?”

The vileness in his voice easily heard. He thought they had gone after the O’Driscolls. Not Arthur; had he known that was what they were doing he would have stopped them. Would have done _something_.

There was an odd glance shot his way, confusion in his words. “What was we supposed to do? Cowpoke’s a traitor old man.”

“I swear, if you even a lay a finger on the boy I will have you-”

“That is enough,” Dutch growled out, stepping between the two. “Mr. Bell is right; like it or not, Hosea, Arthur _is_ a traitor...and you know the rules.”

“Damn the rules,” he swore, his anger focused back on Dutch. “He is our goddamn son-”

“Who’s running with Colm,” Dutch seemed sure to remind him. “If he ain’t, then why isn’t he here?”

“Maybe cause these fools went and ran him off?” He gestured loosely to the trio that stood off to the side, that anger welling once more. The damn fools, the lot of them. Hunting Arthur down like he was some rabid dog that needed a swift kick. He felt fit to strangle them all with his bare hands.

“We were only doing what needed to be done,” Micah pointed out, his arms folded in front of his chest. “Protecting our own.”

“ _Protecting_ our own? Since when do you consider trying to gun someone down, _protecting_?”

He would have struck the man. His fingers clenched into a fist, ready to strike, to lash out. Would have, had Dutch not stood in the way. The desire to slap Dutch in his stead rising, wanted nothing more than to grab the man and shake him, to call him a fool. To demand to know  _why_ the man was not as angry with the others as he ought to be. 

Because Arthur was alive, and he was out there. He was lost, he was _hurt_. Their boy, just within his grasp. Almost felt like he could reach out and touch him, wanted nothing more than to pull him into a protective embrace and chew him out for the all the worry he done put them through.

And once again, it felt as though Dutch didn’t care.

The man’s face set hard, unyielding. Unwilling to bend or even entertain the idea that something foul was at play. Demanding authority and calling an end to this petty argument. Hosea didn't want to yield, didn't want things to end this way. Was about to push, to continue, when a new commotion split the air, stealing their focus.

Mary-Beth’s yell was shrill enough that it sent them scrambling for their guns. Ready and bracing for yet another assault, convinced that the rest of the damn fools were trying one last time. But there was no attack; instead a lone form straggled in. Am arm clutched at his shoulder, half hunched over. Clothes stained red and gauze wrapped in patches about his face and torso.

He looked like a demon.

Like something that shouldn’t be alive and left free to wander. And they watched, stood fast as they tried to come to terms with _what_ exactly they were seeing. Mary-Beth perhaps the bravest of them all as she sped across the clearing, arms hooking around Kieran’s as she helped him stumble in.

“What in the hell happened to you?”

Dutch somehow found his voice, the words strained. His face, visibly pale, as his eyes traced over the blood that stained his clothes. Kieran was staggering, leaning heavily against Mary-Beth now, his voice scratchy as he answered.

“C-Colm’s boys got me,” he put out, “I-they were g-gonna kill me, and I...A-arthur saved me.”  
  


“Arthur did?” Hosea pressed, a short breath of relief fleeing through him.

“I told him, a-about what t-they were planning-”

So Arthur hadn’t been _with_ the O’Driscolls. He had been _chasing_ them. The relief all but bolstering him as turned towards Dutch. That’s why he had come from behind. That’s why he knew where they were. Surely Dutch could see that-but his hopes, dashed moments later as the man waved him off.

“Don’t you worry about Arthur,” Dutch admonished Kieran, “let’s get you looked after-Mary-Beth, why don’t you take him on over by the fire, sit with him a while...”

“I told you,” Hosea pressed, mere moments after she complied. “He ain’t a traitor, Dutch. This all but proves it.”

“It proves _nothing_ ,” Dutch snapped. “For all we know this could have been all staged. A way for him to weasel his way back into our good graces.”

Even with the evidence in front of his face the man wouldn't believe it. So willing to hold onto his own belief and stubborn in his own right. Arthur was his goddamn _son_. Dutch should be defending him, fighting for any last shred to prove his innocence, not damn him to the wolves at a mere inkling.

Hosea pinched the bridge of his nose, thoroughly exhausted, his head throbbing with the very edges of a headache. Arguing with Dutch was a chore, one he hated more than any of his other duties. The man’s ability to twist words and turn phrase was positively infuriating and absolutely unmatched— not one single thing could be straight with him. Whether that was intentional or not, Hosea still didn’t know, even after all these years. But someone had to. Someone had to argue, and bicker, and untangle Dutch’s words so they could be thrown right back at him. Someone had to fight.

And this time, especially, it had to be him.

And then Micah spoke, only further incubating the budding migraine behind Hosea’s eyes.

“Aw, just give it up, old man. Morgan made his choice— arguin’ ain’t gonna change that. Ain’t like none of us forced him to turn tail.”

The nonchalance in his tone sparking a fire in Hosea. He closed the distance between them in an instant.

“This does not concern you!” he roared, jabbing a finger at him, features marred with rage. Shaking. “You best mind your business before I see fit to mind it for you!”

Stopping as Dutch grabbed hold of him, drawing him away. Away from Micah, away from the camp. Offering them a mere glimpse of well-needed privacy. Dutch’s words low, a tone he reserved for the times when he truly was trying to reason.

A slip of the facade. A lowering of Dutch's innate barriers; it was a rare thing to hear, yet it only angered Hosea all the more.

A slip of the facade. A lowering of Dutch’s innate barriers. It was a rare thing to hear, yet only angered Hosea all the more.

“Hosea,” Dutch rested his hands on Hosea’s shoulders. Placating. “This all is… it’s _unfortunate_. And you’re hurting, I know that, but Micah’s right; he’s made his choice-”

“What the hell is wrong with you—“

“ _He’s made his choice_ ,” Dutch pressed again, unbothered by the interruption. Carrying on as though it hadn’t even happened. “And arguing about it now won’t change that. Shouting at each other til we both drop dead won’t solve anything. Please— he— he was my son too—“

Hosea bristled at that, grabbing Dutch by the collar, “Was? _Was?_ You goddamned son of a bitch he—“

“He made a choice, Hosea.” Dutch shook off his grip, “We _all_ did. And I would have done a thousand things different if I had known it would come to this. I need you to believe me, if I had any inclination of the… the suffering this caused I would never have—“

And he stopped.

Dutch stopped.

His mouth shut quick like a trap. Eyes widening briefly. His superfluous words, vanished into thin air. Trailed off. He stammered, trying, failing, to pick up again seamlessly.

There was not much in this world that could leave Dutch Van der Linde speechless. Hosea tightened his grip, feeling the blood drain from his own paling face.

The sudden change in demeanor sparking something cold within him. Something heavy and full of dread...

“…. wouldn’t have what?”

“I… I wouldn’t have… agreed to… to the parley,” Dutch said hurriedly, turning just then to leave. He managed a step, maybe two, before Hosea had reached out, latching onto his arm. Strengthen unknown as he wrenched the man back.

Something needling in the back of Hosea’s mind. Pieces falling into place… pieces of what? He wasn’t sure. Whatever it was, it stung, crying out in his thoughts, absent a few key details. Details Dutch clearly had.

“What did you do?”

He knew guilt, and it was plastered over Dutch’s face. The crying in his head now a scream. Knowing he was on the verge of something; terrified of finding out what, but needing to know. Dutch had never in his life looked so thoroughly cornered. So lost. Scared.

“I didn’t— nothing!”

“What the _hell_ did you do?” fury, molten and hot, coursing through him. The animosity in his words sparking a heated retort from the other. His voice verging a ragged yell now. Seething; vision almost white in anger.

“I didn’t have a _choice_ ,” Dutch defended, squaring up to him just then, shoving him away, “You have any idea the kind of pressure I am under? Twenty goddamned people— women, _children_ , I— ”

  
A cold sweat ran down Hosea’s spine.

“You—“

Dutch just as angry, like he was before, but for different reasons now.

“I did what I had to! To keep you all _safe_! Hosea you know— Pinkertons, bounty hunters, lawmen, O’Driscoll’s it was just— I couldn’t—“

“Don’t…” Hosea’s voice a horrified whisper, raspy and slightly from his prior shouting, “You…”

  
Something had broken in Dutch, the words tumbling out of the man faster than either or them could stem. Waiting, all this time. Rotting. He prattled on about it all— about Colm, about meetings, and family, and _sacrifices._

Hosea standing there, simply staring at him. Trying to convince himself that he was dreaming. He had to be. There was no other way. Because he couldn't accept those words. Couldn't accept _that_.

Dutch sucked in a wavering breath. His voice was small, hardly a whisper.

“He was starting to doubt me, Hosea. He was a weak link and I… it was the only way.”

As though he were trying more to convince himself than to explain his wrongdoing to Hosea. As though he could justify _any_ of this.

Hosea blinked owlishly, searching the air for answers that weren’t there. A thousand things, a thousand thoughts and curses and admonishments raged through his head like an angry bull, only one sticking to his tongue.

“You knew?”

Words barely there. A whimper more than a question. Pieces of the puzzle falling into place. The entirety of the picture coming into play. Understanding.  _Horrified_ understanding flooding through him. His limbs felt numb; his heart stuttered in his chest. The words thick on his tongue, bile resting in the back of his throat, and a pain deep in his bones.

  
“You knew… the whole time he was missing and… and you didn’t do anything because you…”

It all made sense now. Dutch’s reluctance to go looking. His stuttered words when Hosea had first asked after Arthur that night he had disappeared. How easily he had given in and accepted the man’s supposed death. That odd conversation he had held with Micah all those weeks ago.

_Sometimes we gotta make sacrifices._

Arthur had been that sacrifice.

He waited for Dutch to argue. Waited for him deny the accusation, for him to spin one of profuse speeches. Knowing it would make him sick, that it would cut him deep. But he said nothing. The lack of response was worse. It cut him far deeper than he thought possible. And Dutch merely stood there, watching him, unable to say anything.

“You… sold him? Traded him off like-like cattle?” his voice grew louder once more. Hosea trembling with furor. “You goddamned bastard, you sent him to _die_! Twenty damn years and you as good as kill him yourself, you traitorous, _cowardly_ maniac! What _happened_ to loyalty? What about family? That’s our goddamned _son_ and you—you damn bastard.”

“What choice did I have?”

  
Words unheard as the fist slammed into his face. Dutch decidedly shocked as he lay sprawled out in the mud. Stunned for a moment, before pressing a hand against the reddened skin. A wide gaze drifting up his way.

“What _choice_?” he spat down at him. Looming over Dutch, deciding whether it was worth hitting him again. “How about choosing to be decent for once in your goddamned miserable life? How about choosing not to betray the one man here who's _always_ had your back?”

Dutch, continued to stare up at him in shock. Hosea decidedly out of words, shaking his head. Turning. Leaving.

He left him there.

Unsatisfied, angry, and barely controlling himself. Hosea left. Ignoring the pointed looks and gaping stares sent his way. Ignoring the muted hush that had engulfed the camp.

He made a beeline for Silver Dollar. He didn’t need to pack; nothing here mattered anymore.

“Hosea, wait,” Dutch was after him, looking all sorts of disheveled. His face pale, features twisted into some sort of ghoulish expression. Haunted. “Let’s discuss this-”

“Ain’t nothing to discuss,” Hosea shook him off, pulling himself into the saddle. “I’ve done said my peace.”

“What-where are you going?”

He shot Dutch a sharp look, that anger festering, threatening. A bruise already marring his face, tempting him to only add to it. To unleash his rage that was close to bursting. His hands balling into fists, a tremble working its way through his limbs. Words spoken slowly, as though each one might split him open.

“I am going to find _my_ son.”

The emphasis on possession. The damn bastard no longer had that right to call Arthur anything but. Wondering if Dutch noticed. Thinking perhaps he did, if by how his face fell. Panic edging into his expression.

“Are you...coming back?”

He felt his breath catch. Could only stare at him, stunned. Appalled. Out of everything….he forced himself to breath, his eyes narrowing.

“You ain’t any better than Colm, you damn bastard-” he breathed, shaking his head.

“Hosea, please-”

“You’re lucky I ain’t the type for revenge, Van der Linde.”

He turned Silver Dollar, dug his heels into his flank, pitching forward. Racing down the road, leaving it all behind. Dutch, the gang, Shady Belle... all of it disappearing in his wake.

He didn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	14. Hosea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays everyone! Hope it's a great day for you all!

He set his sights on Van Horn.

It was the only lead he had at the moment, the only hope he had in figuring out where Arthur might be. To where he might have gone. How he would find him, Hosea wasn’t sure. But he wouldn’t rest until he had. He would comb through every town, turn over every stone, and kill whoever stood in his way until he got answers.

He would find Arthur, even if it was the last goddamn thing he did.

As if on cue, his lungs burned. His chest, tight and unyielding. His breaths hard to come by, a cough worsening as he rode north, no doubt spurred on by everything that had just taken place. He was consumed by a swath of emotions. Anger at the forefront. Disbelief and disgust fighting for a close second. As well as harrowing pain, a sickly gut-wrenching feeling bottoming out in his stomach, making him sick.

He didn’t want to believe it.

Didn’t want to believe that Dutch could be so cold. So callous and cruel. So uncaring...but a part of him knew it was possible. He had seen what happened to those who crossed his path, who had done him wrong. There was a reason his name struck fear into the hearts of their enemies. A reason why the law so desperately wanted him. Dutch had his charms, for sure, but he be could be undeniably dangerous when he wanted to be. Vicious. Ruthless. Even so, Hosea never thought he’d see the day when it had come to this.

The day Dutch had betrayed one of their own. Their son, no less.

_His_ son, he steadfastly reminded himself.   


Loyalty. What a joke it all was.

It was all that had mattered. All that _ever_ mattered. All Dutch had preached about these past decades. The man going about and disregarding his own rule, without any concern of the repercussions. Expecting to wash the blood from his hands and pretend as though it had never stained his flesh in the first place.

The one benefit to being a leader, Hosea supposed. Cause he knew damn well that had it been anyone else they would have paid dearly for their indiscretion. A sound blow to the face was far less than the man ever deserved, but ultimately all he would get. He doubted anyone else would have the gumption to stand up to him. They were all too used to keeping their heads down and following his lead to protest. Doing what needed to be done to survive.

Given time they would forget.

Forget about Arthur, about him, about the division between them all. Time would sour memory, skew the perception, and whispers of treachery would take place, bitter thoughts seeding deep and distilling cruel remarks in its place whenever this dark moment was ever brought up.

If anything, it only sullied his bitter mood. More than twenty years, all of it gone in one mere instance- one single decision, and it all meant nothing now. All of it felt empty-foreign and wrong. Hosea combed through every second of those twenty years, searching for signs that this was what it would all lead too. If he only knew...

His heart was heavy in his chest, and tears were burning in his eyes, blinked away rapidly. Still seemed as though it wasn’t real. That he might, if he could, fall asleep and wake from this horrid nightmare.

If only it were that simple.

If only he had done more.

Leaving had been a spur of a moment decision. Sound in his mind though, and unwilling to change. He couldn't stay. Not after that.

This wasn’t even the first time he had left. Though he determined it _would_ be his last. 

No…his first time had been with Bessie. His dear sweet Bessie, how he missed her. That had been a long time back now. Arthur had been with them only a year, maybe two. He’d been young then, and there really hadn’t been a gang. Not yet.

Just the four of them, drifting from one place to the other. A disjointed family, running scams that were small and swindling what rich folk the could. Keeping some for themselves and passing the rest of it off to those in need. Beggars, orphans, those living on the streets. They had even jokingly called themselves a modern day Robin Hoods.

After a time, he and Bessie had started talking about heading east. They had come across a small homestead up in the Grizzlies on their journey. It was a quaint little cottage, a day or so from any civilization. At first it had been just talk. A funny little dream. Until finally one summer day they gone separate ways. Determined to pull out of this life and start one anew.

It had had been pleasant, for a time. But the mundanity had caught up with him. Had wheedled and whittled his defenses down until he could no longer stand it. Found himself drifting, becoming a little more brazen each day. Stirring up trouble and missing the others. It hadn’t even been a year before he had found himself back with Dutch, back with Arthur.

  
Bessie, bless her heart, knew. Understood. She hadn’t held it against it, but deep down in his chest he wished that she had. Maybe he would have been there for her, maybe he could have stopped it all from happening. Her sickness, on how she withered away. A year spent miserably drunk after, coaxed only out of that dark shell by Dutch.

He was a whole different person back then. Compared to now. That deep-seated anger resurfacing as he drew into Van Horn. Silver Dollar under him worn, his flanks heaving from the run. It was shoddy little town, a spit of civilization that could be barely called that. The folk here nasty, demeanors bent like ruined nails. Hardly a friendly glance shot his way.

The saloon first.

Always the saloon first.

He knew of Arthur’s habits, knew the man enjoyed his drink. Perhaps too much at times, had landed himself in a cell more often than not, mind skewed by the devils drink. Hosea couldn’t even begin to count the number of times he had sprung the other from jail, each time the man grinning sheepishly and promising it wouldn’t happen again.

A promise he never really believed. A promise Arthur never even attempted to keep. The memory faint, but sudden, consuming his thoughts. Hosea swallowed, his throat tight has he made his way in.

He hoped Arthur was okay.

Who knew what Colm had done to him. The brief moment he had seen the other at Shady Belle had told him nothing. Nothing other than the simple fact that he was alive, and seemingly intact.

But he knew Colm. Knew that there was no way that he had been gentle with Arthur. It wasn’t in the man's nature, and all those long weeks Arthur had been gone left Hosea wondering to what exactly had been keeping him.

Because he refused to believe Arthur had turned.

The man wouldn’t; not given the history. This wasn’t the first misdeed they had suffered at Colm’s hands. The man willing to inflict as much damage as he possible could. The deepest blow being Annabelle. Dutch in misery after that, Arthur and John picking up the pieces while Hosea had consoled the man. No...Colm had hurt them far too often, far too many times for Arthur to even consider joining up with them. Hosea would willing die before entertaining the idea.

Loyalty.

Arthur had followed that word to the letter. Had never strayed, had held everyone else to that code. Had been bitterly angry when John had left. Holding a grudge against the man for a misdeed that everyone else had long forgiven.

What would he think when learned of Dutch? Did he already know? The thoughts sewing even deeper doubts into his mind. Was that why he hadn’t come back? The betrayal forcing him to keep his distance, lingering nearby and assisting only because of their dire situation? Leaving as soon as the attacked ceased, thinking he wasn’t welcome?

That point all but proved when the others had gone and chased him out. When they had tried to-a thought unfinished. A thought he quickly banished, because it hadn't come to that. Because someone had stepped in. Friends...that was what Micah had said. _Someone_ had stepped in, had helped Arthur out when it was needed. The thought warm in his chest, chasing away that chill that had settled there.

At least he wasn’t alone.

The knowledge comforting. Perhaps the only comfort, because he was getting nothing here. The barkeep recognizing the description provided, but shrugging in uncertainty. Arthur had been here, but a long while back. Hadn’t seen a man fitting that description since then.

The same news received at the fence. As well as the post. A vague familiarity with everyone, but nothing more than that. As though he was a ghost, haunting recent places. His spirit still dwelling, watching over him. Hosea found his hopes dwindling with each passing moment. If he found nothing here, then he would continue north. Annesburg was just a few miles from here, a larger place. More opportunities, and no doubt bringing with it new challenges.

But he wouldn’t stop.

That determination in him as he mounted up, working his way north. Van Horn had brought him nothing but more worries. Lost alone in his thoughts, most of which brought nothing but remorse. Regret.

He should have done more. True, he had held no hand in all that had transpired, but he had still failed him. Had let Arthur down when the man needed him the most. That thought hurting the most of all. Dutch had fed him to the wolves, and he had all but let it happen. And after all this time, after all the shit they had been through, he deserved better.

He’d make it up. Somehow he would right all the wrongs. The two of them, they could take off. Find somewhere far from here, far from the influence and destruction of the others. Just the two of them. A dream-a pretty dream.

Dreams fading as he reigned in Silver Dollar. His heart skipping a beat. A curse falling from his lips as he turned his horse round. Not soon enough.

Too damn wrapped up in his thoughts to pay attention. A smug smile on the man’s face as they approached, weapons drawn. Any potential escape cut off. Hosea pushed his fear aside, forgot his worries for the moment. Forced his own smile as he removed his hat.

“Gentlemen, how may I assist you?”

Not that he thought there was a chance of talking himself out of this. But still he had to try. Survival his first instinct.

“We heard rumors of Van der Lindes in the area,” Milton answered causally, as though they were old friends meeting up. “Best we could tell it was just the usual vagrants stirring up trouble; but then here you are. Mr. Matthews himself.”

“I think you are mistaken, my good fella,” Hosea tried to keep the nerves from voice, still clinging onto that little bit of hope. “Name’s Alfred Lafonde-”

“Cut the crap, Matthews,” Milton, it seemed, was in no mood to play games. Hosea feeling that hope slip a little more with each passing moment. Silver Dollar shifting uneasily beneath him, sensing his apprehension. “All of you had a chance to leave, and you’ve made your choice. Leviticus Cornwall has paid us a nice hefty sum to bring you all in. The agency prefers Van der Linde himself, but I figure his second in command is a pretty good place to start.”

He said nothing to that. Knew there was nothing for him to say. Wondering now, to where all this went. Fleeing was no option; they’d show no restraint and he’d find himself riddled with bullets if he tried. Though he much didn’t fancy the prospect of simply surrendering. He could imagined the fate that would befall him within their hold.

“Now, I am a reasonable man,” Milton went on, “And I’m willing to offer you an exchange. You tell us where Dutch is, and we’ll let you walk.”

The temptation strong for one brief fleeting moment. To let Dutch suffer the same fate he had bestowed on Arthur. Knowing that it would be fully justified. It fled almost as quick. Hosea knowing deep down that he never could. Because for all the shit, for all the damn foolish imbecilic notions that Dutch had dragged them through, Hosea was not like him. Hosea would never betray his own kin.

His answer a resolute stare that garnered a heavy sigh. Milton clearly agitated, the notion stirring the smallest bit of gratification in him.

“Well, then. Perhaps you’ll be more willing to converse once we get you to more...amicable quarters.”

The threat light, but there. Hosea knowing full well of what was coming. Knowing he had damned himself to this fate. Knowing he should have thought things through, that he shouldn’t have left on such a sour note. No one would be looking for him, not for a few days at least. They'd be giving him the time and space to calm down. And by then…by then it would be far too late for him.

Still, he didn't regret it. Leaving. He knew that he couldn’t have stayed. Not after learning all that. Not knowing what he now knew. The only regret he did hold was one, the fact that he hadn’t found Arthur.

But now, he mused, that maybe that was for the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes...
> 
> I do feel bad for leaving THAT ending on Christmas.
> 
> But you know...maybe thing will turn out okay?
> 
> Maybe?


	15. Recovery

They had wrapped his leg back in Van Horn to staunch the bleeding. At least well enough to make the journey back to O’Creagh’s Run. The same care shown toward Dakota, the mustang more stressed than harmed. They had taken it slow, more out of precaution than necessity. For Arthur, he hardly noticed.

Hamish filled the silence with talk. A monologue that Arthur responded to with grunts, or a few words when necessary, but he never really engaged. Hamish, for his part, didn’t press. Didn’t ask either. Simply kept talking because Arthur's hum and growls were better than nothing. And when they got back to the small cabin, the man had ushered him inside. Had taken charge. Turns out the man knew his fair share of doctoring. A given, not only from the war, but from his hunts. His prattling more about the latter than the former.

“ _You’d be surprised at number of injuries a beast can inflict on a man.”_

Said mostly in jest, but Arthur knew there was truth to that. Had more than enough encounters to know basic first aid himself. All in all, he could have probably dressed the wound himself, but Hamish had insisted, and after all that had happened, Arthur couldn’t find it in himself to argue.

There had been some pain, dulled by whiskey, but mostly he was numb. Still shaken from the encounter, still trying to process everything. Even the long ride back here had not given him enough time to think. To figure things out.

The others, he knew, were mistaken. Fueled by blind rage, consumed by anger, no doubt. Arthur had to admit that the manner of his appearance after all those weeks certainly hadn’t helped. Not to mention that Bill and Micah were most definitely not the two most level headed fools within the gang. He expected more out of Javier, but at the very least, the man hadn't raised a hand against him.

Not really.

Bill and Micah had.

The two ready to run him through. Would have, had not Hamish shown up. Arthur mumbled no more than a quiet thanks when the man finished dressing the wound, waving off the offer of more drink. Last thing he needed was a befuddled mind; thoughts already muddled enough as it was. And despite the man’s insistence he stay _off_ the leg, Arthur forced himself outside into the fresh open air.

Dakota needed attention. And he needed the distraction. Something to do lest his thoughts run wild and uncaught. Hamish, grumbling about his foolishness, didn't stop him.

Another bit of luck-the bullet had only just grazed Dakota's flank. An eyesore, but hardly any danger. Digging it out had been easy, and patching it up hadn’t taken too long. Once that was done, Arthur set about brushing him down, willing himself to go slow. To pass the time. He found himself consumed once more in thoughts.

He didn’t know what to do.

Everything had happened so suddenly. Everything he knew, or at least, thought he knew, was gone. Things had changed so drastically, his whole world done turned upside down. An ache in his heart that he couldn’t quite soothe. It was nearing a month now that he had last been with them. A subtle longing he wasn’t familiar with.

Sure he spent time on his own. But they was family, a warmth that comforted him whenever he the strain of solitude pulled at him. And how he missed them; all of them. Well...most of them. At the moment he could well do without Bill or Javier seeing as their last meeting hadn’t been all that amicable. And Micah...well, he never did care for that man. But the rest?

Dutch….Hosea...hell, Marston even. He had seen the man, carrying Jack during his brief encounter. The mere sight warming his heart if only slightly, chasing away the chill that was settling around him. At least he knew the boy was safe, back with the others. He drew in a breath, brushing the last of the tangles out of Dakota’s mane.

_Give it time._

The encouragement weak, but there. Give it a few days, he figured. Let them calm down. Then he’d try again. At least he knew where they were, provided they didn’t up and move again. If he rode in there when they weren’t so jumpy, maybe he had half a chance. To explain. Dutch would listen-wouldn’t he?

He could well remember Micah spouting off that Dutch had sent them. But he really didn’t trust the man. Micah liked to talk big, liked to seem as though he was more important than he truly was. At any rate, if Dutch wouldn’t listen, then surely Hosea would. A moment...it was all Arthur would need. Get them to listen, tell them they were mistaken. And in time, this would all be just a memory. Something they would look back on and laugh.

Yes…

It did little to ease his worries, but it gave him a bit of hope to cling to. Or perhaps it was all stout denial. Arthur couldn't be sure, a frown marring his features as he set the brush down. His leg, burning something fierce now from the forced labor. Arthur turned and limped back inside. He didn't question the bowl that was thrust in his hands, nor did he protest against the fussing that was laden over him. Nor did he argue when Hamish invited him to stay. It was something that Arthur took up graciously, realizing for the first time that he had nowhere else to go.

It was a morose thought; one that kept him company in the passing days.

His leg still hurt; the muscle throbbing and protesting at his weight, though Dakota seemed to be fairing better. Arthur spent his days riding him around the lake, mostly keeping to himself, none too eager to burden Hamish with all his depressing thoughts. Though the nights were spent in mirth, trading stories and sharing experiences. Arthur taking residency on the couch, falling asleep with a gracious smile.

Hamish never brought up the incident, and Arthur never shared. A silent agreement between the both of them to pretend as though it had never happened. The morning of the third day greeting them, coffee as usually as the sat on the porch, watching a herd of elk wander by.

Hamish rubbed at his leg, grimacing as he pulled the strap off. “Think there’s a storm brewing.”

“Oh?” Arthur mused, hands wrapped about the tin, the bitter drink heavy on his lips. Hamish liked his coffee strong. He hadn’t much liked it the first time, but he was starting to adjust.

“Yeah, the old leg kicks up a fuss right before rain. Skies will be gray by sundown, I promise you. A shame, really.”

“Ah, a little rain never hurt anyone,” Arthur laughed.

“Rain ain’t what I’m worried about,” Hamish grumbled. “Was hoping to head to Annesburg today, pick up that repeater. Guess it’ll have to wait a few more days; not much in the mood to travel with this ache, and you won’t find me out in that sort of weather. Getting too old for that.”

“You ain’t old, you fool,” Arthur reassured him. Mirth playing at the edges. The sullenness that had drowned him earlier was slowly easing, slowly coming to terms with what had taken place. Arthur figured he’d give it a few more days before he left for Shady Belle, before he risked going in there. Surely a week was long enough, right?

He cleared his throat, “You uh...I can ride on over there, pick it up for you.”

“Ain’t that important,” Hamish waved him off. “You know I just like complainin'”

“Who don't?” he laughed, “Sides-least I can do, for all you’ve done.”

“All I’ve done?” Hamish laughed, leaning forward. “You’ve done me a favor just being here, kid. Been real nice having someone to talk to. Plus if it weren’t for you, I’d still be sitting out there waiting for old Buell to come find me.”

To that he laughed, “Ah, some other poor sod would have been suckered into helping you.”

“I don’t believe it,” Hamish shook his head. “Not sure if you’ve noticed, but people up in these parts aren’t too friendly. The chances of being robbed are higher than being helped, that’s for sure. Hell, I was lucky someone like you came along.”

“For all you know, I could the playin' the long game,” Arthur pointed out, a smile on his lips.

“Don’t believe that for a moment. You don't have it in you,” he ribbed him, “you have one of those faces.”

“Ugly?” he wondered.

“Kind.”

Arthur wasn’t sure of what to say to that. He didn’t particularly think of himself as a kind man. Nor a good man. He’d done a lot of bad things; was starting to figure that all those ill deeds were starting to catch up with him after all this time. Hamish was an example of something small he hadn’t yet fouled up in one way or another. The thought sitting with him. A thought he quickly chased away as he sat up.

“Anyhow-I’d love to run up there for you,” he finally said, referencing to Annesburg. “Give me something to do. Dakota needs a good run anyway. Let him stretch his legs, see how that stitching is holding up.”

Hamish watched him, as though trying to see what exactly he was getting at. Then the man let out a hum, shrugging his shoulders.

“I suppose there’s no harm in it,” Hamish agreed softly. He cleared his throat a moment later, “Right then. Just stop in there and let them know it’s for me; guy by the name of Schultz is who you want. I already paid for the work, so it just needs fetching. Then maybe you and I can see if we can track that bull down that’s been passing through.”

“Maybe,” Arthur laughed softly. Hamish had been keen on bagging that elk for a time now. Had talked about nothing else these past days. Apparently had seen him, a few weeks back, foraging near the lake. The bull had taken off before he could ready his gun and had all but disappeared. Only to reappear just the other night. Small glimpses, faint indications left in the soft ground that he was still in the area. Arthur had tried tracking it that first day, had lost it maybe a mile down the road. Hadn’t tried again since. 

He made quick work, tacking up Dakota. The wound almost healed, yet another scar added to his flank, Arthur brushing his hands gentle over his side, voice held steady while he talked. Updating the mustang on what they were doing, on where they were going. Ears flicked in his direction as he finished.

They left soon after.

Arthur feeling, for the first time a while, as though he had a purpose. A direction.

He had been lost since that day. Confused. And despite his best intentions to ground himself, to reassure himself that everything was going to be okay, he couldn’t help but feel that twinge of fear. Of uncertainty. Of not knowing. For the first time in a long while he felt as though he didn’t have a place to belong. And it frightened him.

A fear he hadn’t felt since he was a kid, cast out on the streets. Wandering aimlessly with no direction. A fear he learned to swallow, a fear he had all but forgotten. Until recently. These past few days shrouded in it despite how hard he tried to forget.

He guessed there were some things that could never be forgotten.

Those thoughts sitting heavy in his mind as he reached Annesburg. He had hoped the ride would clear his head. Settle him down. It hadn’t. Had only made things worse. Remembering only now to why he hated this place. The gruffness taking over as he edged Dakota down towards the gunsmith’s. Best he make this quick then.

Get what he needed and head on back. Arthur figured that he’d reach O’Creagh’s Run by nightfall. He found himself suddenly longing for Hamish’s company once more, despite the fact he had only just left. A small bit of comfort he had found in these desperate times. A comfort he was eager to return to, Arthur getting the repeater with ease, making his way back out to the street.   


In and out.

Grateful it had all been quick. The gun stowed on the saddle, ready for the ride back. He went to mount up when he heard the voice. The words sending a shiver up his spine, the hair on his neck standing up. He quickly abandoned his quest, Arthur letting himself fade back into the shadows, his movements slow as he pulled his hat down over his head. Leaning against the wall, his heart thundering in his chest.

Perfect...if that was all he needed at the moment were fuckin’ Pinkertons.

Milton and the other, whatever his name was. The same two agents who had corned him just outside of Horseshoe all those months ago. The two who had attempted to barter with him. Had offered him his freedom if he only gave up Dutch. What the hell were they doing way out here? If anything he figured they had left these fools on the other side of the pass. Yet here they were, strolling down the midst of the street as though they owned the damn place.

They passed by Dakota, not even giving him a second glance. And why would they? He had had found Dakota after that encounter. And he himself was pressed so far back in the shadows that they hadn’t even noticed. Their words hanging heavy in the air, discussing business it seemed. Something about Cornwall. Arthur recognized that name.

The pair stopping to one side, their faces grim. Seemed Cornwall wasn’t happy. The revelation almost making him snort. He hoped the bastard was giving them the run for their money. Squeezing them dry and making their lives miserable.

“All I’m saying is that we aren’t making any progress,” one of the said. “He isn’t going to talk. Man’s got him charmed, just like he did Callander.”

He froze at that name, blinking. Eyes watching them closer now, peering from under the brim of his hat. Callander...he knew they were talking about Mac. But why? The man was long dead. A mercy killing, or so they had called it.

“Cornwall wants results, not excuses,” Milton responded. “We keep pushing until we get an answer.”

Arthur didn’t like the sound of that. They was talking as though they had someone. Who, exactly, he wasn’t sure. The worry growing in him. Building. His chest tight as he listened. 

“We push anymore and it’ll kill him, I guarantee it. Bastard's ancient-probably on his way out anyhow.”

Those words sat stark in his chest, turning in his head. Surely they couldn't mean-he couldn't finish the thought. Unwilling to hear the retort.

“It’s a chance we need to take. Matthew’s is dead either way so keep pushing.”

_Matthews…_

He couldn’t breathe. Lungs refusing to cooperate, his entire world, frozen at that moment.

Hosea...they had Hosea.

And they were gonna kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> I have no apologies...I mean, we all knew what was going to happen, right? 
> 
> Poor Hosea, all the same. 
> 
> But at least Arthur knows now, right? That is an improvement, isn't it? 
> 
> At any rate, hope you all had lovely holidays, and I'll see you around come Friday!


	16. Rescue

At the end of town there sat an old general store; empty and forgotten. The windows long frosted over, the glass caked in layers of dust, and the front had been boarded shut. The paint was cracked and peeling, the name of _Schneiders_ barely visible after all this time. Arthur had ridden by it a dozen times or more, had even once asked about, a local shrugging and unable to say much. Just that it had shut down soon after it had opened. And Arthur hadn't thought much about it after that.

Until now.

The front door was no longer barred. That had been the first thing that had caught his attention. The second was the man that stood idly nearby. There was a gun resting easy in his hold; looking bored almost. He'd pace back and forth every so often, but mostly he rested against one of the sides, watching as people passed by. Would growl at anyone who lingered too long, shooing them out of the way. Arthur figured it would have drawn his attention to start with, even if had he simply been passing by. The oddity of it all.

But he wasn't just passing by. His entire focus changed now. The agent's words still echoing in his mind. It hadn't taken long for Arthur to deduce that Hosea  _must_ be nearby. That the pair wouldn't just leave when they were so close to discovering what they had long been after. 

A better part of an hour had been dedicated to simply following them. Keeping to the shadows, just within earshot, hoping to pick up on something valuable. But there was nothing, nothing save for idle chitchat. And he had abandoned them they entered the saloon, the space far too claustrophobic for his liking. So he had peeled off, had intended to do his own reconnaissance. Knowing in the back of his mind that every moment counted, that every minute, every second, that ticked by was one where Hosea might be lost. A thought he could not imagine. The fear sitting with him. Breath hitching in his chest, his thoughts racing. Waiting; watching.

And now he was sure.

Certain that this was it.

It had to be.

The man was dressed in the uncanny red like the others. A hat pulled low over his eyes. Keeping watch over an abandoned store; would have been less conspicuous if they had done nothing. He would have likely gone right on by, wouldn't have given it a second thought.

Yet Arthur was glad for their lapse in judgment. And they were fools to only place one man on guard. Killing him had been easy. The body dumped in the bushes just behind. The lock even easier to break. The darkness greeting him as he stepped inside. A musty odor assaulting his nose.

The building was coated in dust, something surely expected after all this time, but it had recently been disturbed. The trail easy to see, a line of prints that led to and from the door and around the corner. To where the stairs were, leading down to a cellar. A shiver racing up his spine as he descended.

The cold, prickling at him as he ventured down, creeping slowly. A thin glow of light guiding him down the stairs as he gripped the railing. Memories of not too long ago surfacing. To the last time he had spent in a cellar, trapped and at the mercy of Colm. His fear, near on blinding as it so desperately begged to turn into a panic. He had to stop. Had to catch his breath. Blinking in the dimness at the sight before him.

“Hosea,” he breathed, a hitch in his voice. As though hoping for a response, though none came.

He was pale.

That, more than anything, stirred Arthur’s blood.

The stillness and quietude could be forgiven— Hosea had always been pensive, always thoughtful. Never fidgety, like Arthur, or nervously verbose like Dutch. Hell, he could’ve easily pretended Hosea was merely asleep. In his old age the man napped just about anywhere; maybe here, too.

But not with the sickly pallor of his skin. Hosea was never pale. His cheeks were always rosy, his complexion bright and friendly, even when he was being decidedly unfriendly. He was sheet-white— save for the bruises and welts that adorned his skin.

Torture...this was _torture._

The panic that had rumbled through him was waning, replaced with something new. Something worse.

He _looked_ dead.

There was no other way to put it. Hosea looked long dead, his blood already pooled out of his skin, his muscles stiff and unyielding. Arthur swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat.

He looked dead.

Arthur found it impossibly hard to breath.

Impossibly hard to move.

But somehow he managed. Somehow he willed himself to take those steps. To draw closer. Heart deafening in his chest.

One shaky hand reaching out, tentatively coming to rest on his. Voice caught in his throat, unwilling to come out. Afraid to ask-too afraid to hear the answer. To hear  _no_ answer. 

The flesh was warm beneath his touch.

_Warm_ ...not icy like the grip of death. A wave of relief hit him. He let out the breath that he wasn't even aware he had been holding. His eyes blurring at the tears that were there. 

Hosea....

He was alive, if only just. The cruelties that had been inflicted on him were perhaps days old, and the man appeared to be more blood and bruise than skin. They had stripped him to the waist, had tied to the chair, wrists swollen and torn underneath the bindings, the telltale signs of a struggle. The bastards had tied him down, had beat him senseless. Hosea had fought them at every step, and paid dearly for it. His face battered, so swollen that he was hardly recognizable. And his leg...Christ-he could see how the foot bent out unnaturally. The limb swollen twice the size it should have been.

Torture...this was nothing but goddamn torture. He felt sick. Bile on his tongue, and he actually heaved, turning away as he tried to get himself under control. They didn't have time for this. Hosea didn't have time for this...

The damn bastards. The fury racing through him, blinking tears out of his eyes. Trying desperately to keep himself from breaking, from falling apart. He couldn't afford it. Hosea _couldn't_ afford it. But the heaviness in his chest was threatening to drag him down. To swallow him whole.

It didn't make any damn sense. What the hell had happened?

Last he had seen, the man was with the others. Back in Shady Belle just days ago. He  _had_ seen him there, up on the railing. Had he not?

Or had he only wanted to see that? Wanted to believe it had been him? Had he been too consumed in gunfire, too wrapped up in his thirst for vengeance to take a proper look?

He was a god damn fool.

Arthur swallowed. Forcing the bile back that was dancing on his tongue. He pushed those grim thoughts aside. It didn't matter.

_This_ mattered.  _He_ mattered. 

Hosea was alive. The faint wheezing breaths like whispers against the thunderous din inside of him. A reassurance the man had not yet departed this world for the other. He had been beaten, bruised and broken, but he was  _alive_ . And alive was better than dead. 

Alive he could work with.

They didn't have much time. Arthur forced himself to move, knife pulled free as he set about cutting the ropes. Set about working him free. Thankful just then they had just used rope and not chains to pin him down.

There was no sign that Hosea was aware of what was taking place. No movement, no stirring; his unnatural stillness gripping at him uneasily, but he tried to reason that it was perhaps a small mercy; the man had already endured enough pain. And he found himself wondering. Wondering if this was what Mac had gone through.

Arthur could well remember the conversation they had. A mercy, Milton had called it. Some goddamn mercy this was...the threat of sick building back inside of him. Swallowing heavy as the last of the ropes cut free; Hosea's flesh was warm beneath his hold, the indication of a fever taking hold. His wounds were no doubt infected, his bones no doubt broken; his speculations all but confirmed as a weak muted cry fell free as Arthur pulled him up.

“Easy,” he breathed, voice kept low. He had no telling who was around. No telling how far they would make it before they ran afoul of trouble. The quieter they were, the better it would be. But he wouldn't say nothing. He wouldn't damn the man to silence, not after all he had suffered. Had carefully wrapped an arm about his shoulder. Had tucked his other around the man's waist, hauling him up.

Dead weight against him, head lolling against his shoulder as he started to move. Another stifled groan breaking free, Arthur tightening his grip as he stumbled. Hosea coming to, if only a little, feet dragging under him. A hand reaching up shakily, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. Holding onto him, or trying to push him away, he wasn't quite certain.

“I got you,” he reassured, shifting the man's weight. Getting a better hold. Hosea weighed next to nothing, his frame sleek, age no doubt taking a toll on him these past few years. He seemed so weak, so frail...something he hadn't ever seen before. Hosea had always been strong; to see him like this...

“Arthur?”

His voice tearing through him, all muddled with pain, drowned out by confusion. It echoed dully in his ears. Arthur could hear the disbelief, as well as something else. Fear...he realized. The man was afraid. And it terrified him all the more. Gripped him firm in a vice, and left him unable to breathe almost. Because it had been years since he had last heard that kind of fear from him.

Years since he had heard the man sound so broken-dark memories of the days before Bessie's death surfacing. The somber recollection of despair and desperation that had nearly drowned the man out, only to be chased by a cascade of liquor in the following months; each day spent wondering if this one was the last. Wondering now if it was the same here.

No...he refused to believe it. Refused to entertain that notion. Arthur had him now, was going to get him out of here. Hosea was very much alive, and Arthur intended to keep it that way. He somehow found his voice. Somehow kept it steady. Swallowing back his own fear. Putting on a front. Pretending it was all okay.

“I got you, old man,” the jest coming out, a poor attempt to make light of the situation. Trying his best to blanket his worry. “You gonna be okay now; gonna get you some help.”

“You damn fool...you shouldn't-shouldn't be here,” Hosea breathed, his voice stuttering. Arthur could feel him shift, feel him try to push away. “Best you go before-before they catch you too.”

“Ain't gonna happen,” Arthur shook his head, tightening his grip, pulling him closer. He wasn't sure what he was denying. Leaving the man here, or the possibility of him getting caught. Both, perhaps. There was no way in hell that he was going to leave the other behind.

“I'm gonna get you out of here-get you somewhere safe, alright?”

He wasn't sure where. Camp was the first thing that sprung to his mind; something born out of habit. Camp had always been a sanctuary. A slice of comfort, a bit of warmth. Dutch-the man would surely know what to do. He'd take Hosea from his grasp as he barked out orders. He'd see to it that the man was well taken care of in way Arthur wouldn't even think of.

It was a good thought; but one that was fleeting. Chased away by a more recent memory. He doubted he'd even make it close. They’d run him out, shoot at him, and were damn sure about to do worse. He was unwelcome, and they made that very clear. Unwilling to listen, blinded by their emotions.

He could only imagine what might happen if he returned with Hosea in such a state.

Nothing good, he realized.

Hamish then, he decided...if not camp, then Hamish. The man would welcome him in. Would help the both of them. Arthur could get him there, get him patched up. If he could make it that far. He glanced down at the man that was slumped over in his hold. Fingers still entwined weakly in his shirt, soft groans dripping from his lips. Bringing him this far was already wracking him in pain, he didn't even want to think what a ride would do to him. Up and over the pass, a journey that would at best take hours, if not the full day hindered by his condition. And Hosea...the man suddenly heavy in his hold, having passed out once more.

He wouldn't make it.

The thought sitting ill with him, the heaviness in his chest. A gruesome thought he pushed aside as he shifted again, pausing at the base of the stairs. This was taking too long, and he knew there was no way he could drag the man up the stairs like this. He'd have to be carried; Arthur wrapping and arm about the man's waist, and hoisting him up. A silent apology as he slung the man over his shoulder like a sack of grain. A faint groan from the other as he made that climb. Careful steps as he edged the door open, scanning the immediate area.

The smell of rain greeting him, the skies gray overhead. Hamish's musings creeping in his mind. It was a light drizzle now, but in time that would change; a torrent unleashed, a sure promise seeing the dark clouds that were billowing in. Yet another thing that worked poorly in their favor.

He pulled back inside, the door closing behind him as his breath caught in his throat. There were tears again, stinging his eyes and he let out a curse as he settled the man down on the floor. Another low groan catching his attention, watching as Hosea's eyes fluttered open, a dull gaze watching him questioningly.

Arthur kept a hand on his, fingers circled carefully, mindful of the bruising. A timid squeeze, a quiet reassurance. Trying to figure out what to say. What to do. Where to go... If not camp, and not Hamish, then where?

They couldn't stay here.

They had but precious little time before they were discovered. It wouldn't be long before they had company, the absence of the guard would no doubt draw suspicion. And with him here, the agents would no longer have any use for Hosea. They would kill the man, of that he was certain. The thought weighing him down. Felt as though he was drowning; didn't even realize he was crying until there was a gentle pressure on his hand drew his attention; found Hosea watching him still.

“Damn bastards...worked me over good, didn't they?”

“Ah, you ain't too bad off,” Arthur forced a smile, hastily wiped the tears from his face. He moved himself in closer. Sat on the floor near him, their shoulders touching. The warmth, grounding him, chasing away his panic, if only momentarily. “We just gonna sit here a moment, catch our breath. Then we gonna get out here, alright?”

There was a low hum, Hosea's eyes drifting close for a moment. Blinking open slowly, as though he was fighting to stay awake. “I'm glad you're here, son...I've missed you...”

The confession heartfelt. Tugging at something unseen deep within him. Fighting back a wave of emotion that threatened to cascade over him, far too close to toppling over the edge. He had to keep his head. His fingers lacing through the others, Hosea's head resting on his shoulder. The man's breaths heavy as his eyes drifted closed once more.

  
He was running out of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year Folks! It's the last Chapter of 2020 (For me at least). Figured I'd spoil you guys a bit and show you what's going on. 
> 
> Though I'm sure it probably isn't what you wanted. 
> 
> I have a feeling there will be a few apologies in these next chapters...
> 
> Just...don't kill me? Otherwise you won't EVER know what happens next...


	17. Slipping Away

He thought he was dreaming.

That what he was seeing was simply delusions spurred on by the pain. That he had been far too wrapped in agony to hold onto reality, crossed over into wanton desire. And those desires were now crashing into his despair, and that this was perhaps one final want attempting to drown out the misery that he found himself in.

Arthur...he had been looking for Arthur when all this had happened. So set on finding the man that he had let his guard down. That he hadn't paid close enough attention to his surroundings. If he had taken a moment, kept his wits about him, then maybe he wouldn't be here. Wouldn't be trapped in this...hell.

Because this was worse than hell. Worse than he had thought possible; knowing now that he should have turned and ran, damn the consequences.

They had been none too kind.

Not that he had expected them to be. They were a mockery of everything that they claimed to be; called themselves civilized, claimed fools like Hosea were the savages; all the while they had beaten a defenseless man for answers he wasn't willing to give. Had beat him senseless, pain coming in waves in the brief snatches of lucidity he had grasped onto. Leaving him to wonder who the true savage was.

Those who left him broken; battered and balancing the fringes of total defeat? Or those who fought to make their own way in the world? A question he was sure Dutch would be so inclined to answer. The notion sitting ill with him; because he didn't much want to think of the man right now. Didn't want to think much of anything.

He wasn't sure how much longer he could do this. Hold on. Though he was determined to do so-to hold onto what secrets he had, unwilling to betray them with his final breaths. But it was hard. It was so damn hard, and it hurt so much.

He found himself drifting in an out of consciousness. Never truly aware. Sometimes waking to company, other times it was just himself. Pain greeting him either way. Intense or muted. Stealing his breath, wrenching free the tears. He had been trapped here for hours, if not days. Time having lost all meaning. Wondering if each time the darkness claimed him, if that would be the last. Only to wake once more, blinking; disoriented. Unsure.

And one of those times he woke, he had been there. _Arthur_ had been there. 

It couldn't be possible. No, it couldn't...how would Arthur even know?

If anything, he expected the others. Not him. Dutch maybe. But not really.

Not with how he left. Not after what he had done. He was truly on his own. Arthur a figment of his imagination. Drummed up by desperation. Certain that this was nothing more than a fantasy; a pretty dream. Still he clung to it. Longing for the faintest thread of hope. Of comfort.

Something warm embracing him. Hope filling him. Because it sure did looked liked him, when he thought about it. Sounded like him as well; the voice low in his ear, reassuring. Smelt like him too...his senses flooding him, fingers gripping coarse fabric as he was moved. A want he clung to so tightly; and the vision didn't fade the next time he came round. Reinforcing the hope that this was indeed real.

“ _I missed you, son.”_

Had to get the words out. Had to let him know. Fading again. Couldn't remember what came after. He wasn't sure how he had gotten out of there. Didn't remember being moved. Found himself blinking wearily as he was lowered, whimpering as he jostled. The apology soft, head sinking into the pillows beneath him. And Arthur...

The man still there. No longer an apparition, but a reality. He looked scared. Fear wrought onto every line that creased his face. Eyes wet, brimming with treacherous tears, a calloused hand coming to rest on his forehead.

“You're gonna be okay, you hear me?”

“You never were...good at bluffing,” he breathed out in response. Words hard to come by. He hurt. Everything hurt; his head pounding to a rhythm of its own, a pulsating through the rest of his body, so much pain it was hard to separate. Easier, he mused, to just give in. He was far too old for this; the damage far too extensive.

“Ah, you just got banged up a little, 's all. These folk here? They good folk; gonna help me take care of you. Get you all better, so don' you worry none.”

His eyes traced dully as the door opened, watching as a young woman pushed her way in. She stopped to stare at him in return, a bowl clutched in her hands. Fingers gone white they dug so hard into the vessel. Stammering, a moment later, words unheard as the bowl was passed over, Arthur thanking her. The bowl set down by the bed, Hosea following his movements. Eyes closing as the cloth pressed against his swollen face, drawing a grimace from him. Careful movements dabbing, wiping away the dried blood that had crusted there.

“They don't speak much English, I'm afraid,” Arthur went on, talking. Filling in the silence that was previously occupied by strained breaths. “But I reckon they'll let you stay, long enough till you're on your feet again.”

To that he hummed. Unsure if that was truly a possibility. Already it was a struggle, simply lying here, doing nothing. Eyes drifting close as the cloth moved lower, wiping at his chest, cleaning his arms. A sharp hiss as his leg was moved, more apologies coming forth. The worry heavy in the air.

“I ain't sure-I don' know what to do,” he confessed, breath coming out in a hitch, his voice strained. “Couldn't take you too far, and well -can't rightly bring the doctor in; bastards are still in town, looking for you real hard, and he'd know, and he'd...I can't-”

“It's alright, Arthur,” he managed to get out. Managed to cut the other off. To stop his ramblings. Heard the man swallow above him. Continue on with something new. Like it was an idea that just seized him.

“You know what? I'll make you some of that tea like you always done for me. Get you some sleep, see what I can do then. What you use again? Valerian?”

Arthur had moved, pulling away from him, as though he was about to bound out the door. He was stopped only as Hosea reached out for him. Timid fingers grasping his wrist, his touch stalling him. Arthur was watching him, blinking slowly as Hosea spoke, his voice a little stronger this time.

“It's alright,” he breathed. “You've done...good enough.”

“Hosea,” Arthur shook his head, “look at you-”

“Don't you go...worrying about me,” he scolded. Twenty god damn years and no one had fussed after him. He wasn't about to let anyone start now. And new thoughts were pushing forth, demanding his attention. His chest tight, forcing the words out. “I looked for you,” he paused, drawing in a breath, continuing, “after Colm.”

“Been lookin' too. Trying to find you fools,” Arthur responded, looking away. His voice caught somewhere in his chest, breaking as it came forth. “Colm he...it was all a trap. He wanted to lure all you in, turn you into the law-and I couldn't let it happen... I got away, I did...but he-it weren't pretty, Hosea. Got lucky I suppose; good man found me. Took me in. Tried to write but guess you never got the letter. When I got back to Clemens, you was all gone. Been chasing one thing after another since then, and thought I finally found you all, but you all think-”

The words all tumbling out, too fast for him to cling onto, barely able to understand. But he watched as his face hardened, something changing in his expression. The worry still there, but overshadowed by hints of anger. Of desperation. “I-I _ain't_ running with Colm.”

“I know.”

He knew. Had always known. And hearing the confession only bolstered his resolve. Chased away that twinge that had been growing inside of him. But it left the door open for something else. Something worse. Knowing what he knew, trying to find the words to say. Because Arthur _needed_ to know.

“I'm sorry,” he finally breathed. Unsure of how else to say it. But it needed to be said. “I'm so...so sorry, Arthur. I- he – I didn't think...he would-”

“What you talking 'bout?”

“Dutch sold you out to Colm.”

Best to get it out in the open. Even he still didn't believe it. He had put all the pieces together; Dutch had all but admitted it, but he still didn't want to think it was true. To hear himself say it, left him feeling like an old fool. Felt like that ought to be a dream instead of reality. A cruelty that shouldn't have existed. And Arthur...Arthur watched him, perplexed, before frowning. He reached over, wet the cloth again, pressing it against his heated flesh.

“Think they hit you too hard there, old man. You're talking crazy now.”

Hosea reached up, grasping his hand, stilling his movements. “Arthur. Dutch he-,” he let out a breath, closing his eyes a moment. Gathering himself, “I don't think the idea...was his, but he-he went along with it....did it to get Colm off of us. I didn't...know. I didn't-”

“That's- no,” Arthur shook his head, voice drawn thin, the remnants of a barely-amused smile pulling taught on his face. “He wouldn't, he ain't-”

“He ain't been...himself,” Hosea agreed, grimacing as his chest hitched. “Dammit, I should have...known. He ain't...even gone looking for you. When you...didn't come back,” he managed to get out once the pain had dulled. “He lied- lied to all of us. Said you...that you was off...collecting debts.” The pain coming anew. Felt Arthur grip his hand, gentle words talking him through the spasm.

“Easy now,” Arthur chided him, a hand firm on his, “it's alright-”

“The hell it is,” he ground out. “Twenty goddamn years...and he- you... _you_ deserve better.”

Deserved _far_ better than what he had gotten. All the shit they had been through, Arthur had been with them. Had been with them since the very beginning. And Dutch had fed him to the wolves. Hadn't even looked back. And Hosea had let it happened. Remembered that he had barely even looked up at the first mention, despite the fact it had roiled in his gut. The thought bringing him to tears, the sob torn from him.

“ _You were our son,”_ he concluded shakily, “ _His_ son, all them years and he…”

“Let's just-let's get you looked after, alright?” Arthur consoled him, his own voice wavering. “All that-that can wait.”

He swallowed, tried to swallow at least. The lump heavy in his throat, his chest burning. Hand still gripping his tight, and he felt tired. So tired, the exhaustion creeping in on him. The weariness coating him like a blanket, and he could only watch as Arthur moved again. The man grabbing a cup, then easing him up, helping him to drink. The water the cool, soothing his torn throat. Laid gently back down, covered with a thin blanket, drawn up carefully to his shoulders.

“I woulda killed him, wanted to...right then and there. I shoulda. Shoulda shot him dead the minute he...” he shuddered, fighting off a new wave of pain. Took a moment, to let it pass. To gather himself. “You were always...a good one, Arthur,” he breathed, the smile still there. “Always were...my favorite.”

“Don't you let Marston hear you say that,” he chided, forced out a soft laugh. “Dumb fool's convinced he's the favorite; he'd never recover, you know.”

There were a thousand of things he wanted to say just then. A thousand thoughts dancing on his mind, waiting and wanting to spill over into words. Lessons he had yet to impart. A plea to just go. To run. To leave all this behind and never look back, and cast aside the past twenty years as easily as Dutch had.

A reminder that vengeance was a fool’s game. That there was more out there for him. An actual life and not this monstrosity that so desperately kept them tethered from one bad decision to the other. But there wasn't time for that. Not nearly enough time, he knew. Choosing instead to say what he felt like the was the best thing. The most important thing.

“You be good....you hear?”

“Ah, come on,” Arthur reached over, pressed the cloth against his forehead once more. “Don't you be talking like that.”

“Arthur,” he shook his head, regretting the motion soon after. Had to wait a moment, for the world to stop spinning.

“You ain't giving up on me old man, you understand?”

Hosea spat the words out between stunted breaths, the faintest ghost of that usual silver smile just barely crossing his face, “Don't be dense.”

“You're gonna be just fine,” a plead, almost. Fallen on deaf ears.

“Ain't no place...for the likes of an old fool like me in this world, Arthur.”

“I ain't gonna give up on you,” he answered, determined. The grip on his hand, tighter. A smile on his lips, though sad in nature. Arthur was always a fighter. This wasn't a battle that could be won, he feared.

“Promise me,” Hosea's voice near a whisper. “Promise...be good...get out while you can.”

“Hosea-”

“Promise?”

A beat of silence, and he watched as the man nodded, subdued. Hand still clutching his tight, as though he might chase away all the hurt within that grip. Hosea felt a weight lift off of him, as though he had accomplished one of the things he had sent out to do. If only there was more time.

He closed his eyes, the persistent tug of darkness beckoning. Bitter pleas falling on deaf ears-he was too worn to fight against the inevitable. Arthur, he knew, would be alright, given time.

Time, after all, did heal all wounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah....
> 
> I'll see you guys on Friday....


	18. Dutch

He watched Hosea leave; Shady Belle quiet in his wake. The camp behind him, ceasing to a halt, hands and words alike. The silence, deafening.

Until Dutch roared. Snapped at them all to get back to work. To clean up the mess that had been left behind. The man fuming, disgust rising in him, chasing away all reason. Wanting to yell, to curse, betrayal looming over him like a storm cloud moments away from releasing a tempest. First Arthur, now Hosea...who next?

Who would be the next to leave him standing out here alone? He was trying to support a group of over twenty, and all his efforts had gone unappreciated. What had the world come to?

Did no one believe in loyalty, anymore?

His anger seething. Roiling. Burning just beneath his skin, fingers clenching as he sat down on the bed, enrobed in silence. Everyone scattering, no one daring to question. His heart was hammering ferociously inside his chest. Threatening to break free.

To him, it felt as though time was ticking away far too fast and yet stagnant all in the same moment. His thoughts were overwhelming; far too flimsy to grip on to. To hold; elusive, like water slipping through cracks in his fingers. Hosea's words, each one laced with bitter vehemence, echoing in his mind.

_“You're no better than Colm.”_

He was _nothing_ like him.

Dutch had distanced himself from the other long ago for a reason. The man vile, uncouth, uncaring. His men, expendable, Colm hardly caring one way or the other. The man couldn't even remember half of those who followed him.

No...they were nothing alike.

The fact that Hosea would even insinuate such a thing based on a singular, admittedly lamentable circumstance, was appalling. Most especially when he didn't have a choice. Sure it sounded bad, Dutch reasoned, when one didn't look at the grit of the situation. But there was more to it, a larger picture as opposed to one simple piece.

Arthur was...Arthur was an unfortunate factor. Something that was unwanted, and it was a shame in how it all had played out, but that was out of his control. All of it too far gone in the past, and the past could no longer be changed. What had been done had been done. He had made his choice. Arthur had made his. And Hosea...

Dutch nearly flinched, reliving the memory. Even now could hear the resounding crack sounding in his ears. The blow unexpected...

Feeble fingers pressed against his tender flesh. Poking. Probing. Wincing. He pulled it away, his hand coming to rest loose in his lap. He was thinking. Wondering. Reflecting on what had taken place. An uneasy feeling roiling in his gut. Making him feel sick.

Why, he wasn't so sure. This wasn't the first time they had fought, after all. Oh no....

They used to fight often; when they were younger. A couple of right young fools they were. It always happened when they were drunk. Inebriated, and none too wise. They would wake up, hung over and sorely aching. Would spend the morning sizing up bruises and rehashing memories, trying to figure out precisely _what_ had started it all in the first place. Often a times they found themselves unable to agree. More than once it led to another fight, spurred on by yet more drink. 

Yes. They had exchanged blows before.

But never like this.

They had grown since then. Had chased away their youthful arrogance and replaced it with experience. Wisdom, if one could call it that. Their physical confrontations faded, preferring verbal insults instead. They had held their own opinions, had disagreed more than once, but they hadn't ever come to blows, not since those first few years after meeting. And _never_ had they just parted ways. Never had Hosea just...left. Dutch felt himself swallow, a lump heavy in his throat. Wondering just then.

Had he been wrong?

The thought was there, small yet stubborn all the same.

Had he done the right thing?

Sure, he hadn't been happy with any of it. Not at first. Learning that Colm had taken Arthur; Micah talking him down from pursing the other. Had told him that going after him would bring nothing but misery for them all. Conceding to Colm had been hard. Leaving Arthur behind had been even harder.

But Micah had been right. Colm already had Arthur.

Going after him was a fool's errand. A death sentence. One man's sacrifice, for the good of all. That was what Micah had said. And as much as he didn't like it, he knew there was truth in that. But had he acted too rashly? Given in to the easiest out he was offered without really thinking it through? Distracting Colm by leaving Arthur. A peace offering, of sorts. His best gun, for a few precious moments of security.

His best gun...a man who had been like a son to him. The guilt rising in him. Dutch chasing them away as soon as they started to overwhelm him. Holding fast to new thoughts that were rising. A justification to his actions, questionable as they were.

Because the signs had been there.

Obvious. Blindingly so. And Dutch would be a fool not to recognize them. He knew Arthur, had known him for near twenty years. He'd seen the change, subtle but there. The man's reluctance to do certain things, the lack of his enthusiasm. His _doubting_. Sooner or later, Arthur would betray him. It was only a matter of time. 

Arthur was a liability.

This had become painfully clear over the past months. Dutch had found himself caught in tumult of steadfast denial and bitter realization. Coming to terms with things the more Micah spoke with him. The man reserving judgment, but having the uncanny ability to notice certain things.

Like the fact that Arthur was absent from that whole Blackwater mess, most especially when they needed him. Showing up just as they had managed to slip free. He had led them into the Grizzlies, straight into the path of the O'Driscolls. And Colter...at the Adler house? Arthur had let that O'Driscoll slink free, had claimed that the storm would take him well enough. Had been unwilling to finish him off.

Then there was the whole mess with the train. That job nearly botched; after all, hadn't Arthur said things were all set? Bill confiding in him later that Arthur had been the one to hook up the charge; the same charge that hadn't gone off. And he hadn't killed those fools on the train either, had let them live.

Had let those same fools go crying back to Cornwall. Cornwall had then set the Pinkertons on them. Those same Pinkertons had crossed paths with Arthur, and for some unknown reason had just let him go. Arthur dragging his feet, questioning him at every turn. Hell, he hadn't even wanted to go after Micah, more than willing to let one of their own hang for reasons unknown.

No...Arthur had been drifting for a while it seems. Longer than he had first thought, apparently. The man dipping his toes into warmer water, looking for better opportunities.

If only Hosea could see that.

Yet Hosea was stubbornly set in his limited mindset. Unable or unwilling to see the bigger picture.

Too blinded by fond reminiscence to understand that clearly something was awry. Choosing to see only what he wanted and no more. Too caught in his own visions to realize the danger they were all in. It was a difficult choice, but one that had to be made. And Dutch wasn't afraid to make that call, even if he had to make it alone. If that made him a monster...then well he'd be the devil himself before he let the rest of his family fall to ruin.

He didn’t say anything because he knew they wouldn’t understand. He knew they wouldn’t. Their small minds had never been able to see beyond the here and now. It was for that the same reason he couldn’t let Hosea know. The man would twist his words, bend and snap and force the plain facts to fit his own crooked agenda, too distracted by his feelings to see the truth of the matter. The old man was a fool, stuck in the past, too determined to find fault in Dutch so he didn’t have to see it in himself. Once, he thought Hosea was the only one who could stand a chance at understanding him. But that time had passed.

Arthur _had_ changed. He could see it. The others had seen it. Hosea would see it as well, given time.

He'd be back.

Dutch would give him some time. Let the man simmer down. Let him come to realize the truth of things. That he hadn't any choice. Then he'd come back.

  
Because Hosea  _always_ came back. 

The man would ride in, his head hung low, would mutter an apology. He would want forgiveness. Forgiveness that Dutch would rightly give. They'd share a few words, come to an understanding. And then never speak of this moment again.

Yes...

Everything would be just fine.  _They_ would be okay. They had made it this far, had they not? They just needed to keep pushing. A difficult feat, no doubt. He knew that these past hours, let alone the past days, had been undeniably deplorable.

They had held a faint glimmer of hope, had gotten a lead from Bronte. Dutch  _had_ liked him. The man seemed genuine, had sprinkled hints throughout the party and nudged them towards the trolley station. A promising lead. A lead that turned out to be nothing more than trap. Lenny and Micah had been at his side, had helped him get of there. Luck...it had all been luck that saw them flee the city, barely escaping with their lives. And now the whole of the city was on edge, and it presented a far larger problem than they first thought.

Because Bronte had set him up.

Bronte had made him look a fool.

Worse yet was the fact that they were making plans on robbing the bank. A downright suicide mission with Bronte watching their every move. He would need to be dealt with. The realization hitting him the day before. Had given him the opportunity to do some poking around in attempt to find a solution. Had found something, was about to pursue it when the whole mess of the O'Driscolls happened. And Arthur...

Arthur was no more. Dutch tried to push the man from his thoughts. Knew that he had to forget him, that there were other matters to focus on. As far as he was concerned, Arthur was dead to him. No longer an Van der Linde, but an O'Driscoll.

One day, he reckoned, they would cross paths again. And no doubt that day would be unpleasant. But until then, his mind was made up. He chased away the thoughts he had held, moving to his feet. There were things to be done. Time precious, the earlier attack all but proving their options were running out. He'd deal with Bronte. He'd figure out the best way to hit the bank. Then he'd figure a way out of this hell hole. Figure a way to get his family somewhere safe.

But first...first he needed to deal with Bronte. The damn fool had crossed the wrong person. And a plan was brewing in his mind.

He had heard tell of a man in the swamps. Whispers of a name, of someone far in the reaches of the bayou. Apparently there was a man that could assist in their little problem. For a price. 

Dutch knew that same bayou backed the home of Angelo Bronte himself. And the way Dutch figured, given all the...assistance Bronte had given them as of late, it was only polite of them to return the favor. Perhaps drop in for an unexpected visit.

The camp was still quiet as he crossed the yard. The Count tacked up and ready, and he hollered at Bill and Micah to get ready. The two men following without complaint.

Loyalty.

That was all he wanted.

All he asked for.

Why was that so hard for others to see?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we visit Dutch for a bit, and see that yes, he has pretty much lost his mind. 
> 
> Though I always find it interesting trying to think along his wavelength to figure out exactly why he doesn't trust Arthur and why he thinks the man (who is the most loyal to him) would betray him in the end. 
> 
> Was it because he knew he was wrong and that Arthur wouldn't blindly follow him that far? Or did he truly think/feel that Arthur was a loose end? 
> 
> I tried to pick up on a few of the reasonings he might of had,so hopefully they come across well enough. 
> 
> Let me know your own thoughts in the comments, and I'll see you guys on Tuesday! :)


	19. Father and Son

Things had not gone to plan.

Not to say they had gone poorly.

No...in retrospect, he had accomplished precisely what he had set out to do. It just had been a bit...uncouth.

Though it had been gruesome in nature, the deed had been done, and Angelo Bronte was no longer a problem of theirs. No longer a problem for anyone, if truth be told. None of the folk around here were all that fond of him to begin with. His death, Dutch knew, would also draw the attention of the law, would pull the heat away from the city.

It would give them the time to hit the bank proper.

They had been hashing out plans for a time now. At first it had been simple speculation, Hosea thinking it could be a good take. Normally they avoided large city banks. There was often too much hassle to be of any worth. The risk too high. But Hosea had been running hits. Had been watching. Had been timing, and he had figured they could pull it off.

Had been certain of it. Working with it, making plans. Putting the pieces together.

And he was gone now. Those plans taken with him.

Days had now passed by with no word from the other. It sat uneasily with Dutch, settling heavy in his gut. Long past when Dutch had expected the man to come slinking back in. Now there was a jumble of emotions taking over; worry, anger, frustration, exasperation. All of these and more melded together, feeding his insatiable moods. Dutch found himself lashing out at anyone who questioned him, or even so much as gave him an odd look. Those around camp avoiding him, keeping their distance, heads down low. The balance at camp, uneven.

He heard how they whispered. Quiet voices filling the night. Speculations running rampant. Dutch finally putting an end to it all just that night. Giving a semi-rehearsed speech about how things had been tough. About how they had those who had turned their backs on them, but that it was no reason for others to follow suit. He had even invited the others to leave if they so felt things were unfair. And not a soul had left. Not a person had challenged him.

Micah stepping up, announcing that they were all in this together. That he would follow Dutch wherever he went. The only man with a lick of loyalty, it seemed.

He was still angry with Hosea.

The thoughts clouding his mind as Dutch pulled himself atop of The Count. He would have figured by now the man would have come crawling back, begging for forgiveness. But there was nothing. Not even a inkling that he was around. Dutch had even gone as far as to send one of the ladies into town to collect the post, hoping for a letter. An explanation. But there had been nothing. And they were running out of time. Precious little time in which they could hit the bank.

“ _We ain't need him boss, we can pull this off ourselves.”_ Micah had reassured him. 

Maybe they could. Maybe not.

Dutch wasn't so sure.

He hadn't ran a job this large without Hosea since...well since Blackwater. That hadn't turned out well for any of them, he knew. The failure looming over him, dark like a shadow. He tried to remand himself that that was then. That this was now. Things had changed. If they could pull this off...well, it would be their final job.

One last hit...

He turned The Count, headed off down the road. Leaving Lagras behind. Night still gripped the land, the stars unseen above as clouds had moved in. Not even the moon had granted him an appearance. Just as well...the darkness hid the blood on his hands. Hands that had been hastily cleaned on his pants; he could still feel the grime under his nails. His heart still thundering in his chest. Sleeves still damp from the swampy water.

“ _Which one of your philosophy books cover feeding a feller to a god damn alligator?”_

John's words fresh in his mind. Acting as though he had a choice. As though he had wanted all this to happen. Dutch scowling as he urged The Count into a steady gait. Bronte had made his choice. Had chosen to cross him. _This_ was the result of that choice. Wasn't his fault the others failed to see that.

“ _What? You think we was just gonna let him go?”_ Micah had wondered.

It spurred them into a fight, the two squabbling until Dutch had snapped. Shooing all of them on ahead. Sending them back to camp while he stayed behind and squared things away with Thomas. He had paid the man a fair sum, thanking him for his services. The man thanking him in return, stating that Dutch had done them all a favor.

Now all there was to do was get back to camp, get some rest. He'd figure things out in the morning, on how to do all of this on his own, without Hosea. He had a plan, albeit a loose one. There was a jumbled list, running through his mind. Marks that were being made, ticking off the boxes. They were one step closer to their goal, he knew. One job closer to the end.

If they pulled this off...and he was sure that they could, then the rest was history. Yes...there was enough of them to see this through, even without Hosea. They'd get someone else on that wagon to cause the distraction, while he and the boys took care of the bank. It was perfect.

But he wanted Hosea.

How he missed him.

Missed him more than he could say. Dutch had found himself, more than once, turning to him. Or at least to where he used to be. Questions on his lips, waiting to fall. Silence his only companion as the words came tumbling out. Dutch found that he was talking to himself more often than not. Out of habit, or necessity, he wasn't sure. A raw ache, the abandonment coursing through him.

_This_ was all Arthur's fault.

The blame coming swift and holding fast. Dutch's brow furrowing as he wound his way through the swamp. Arthur had stumbled. Had gone astray. And Hosea had followed blindly after. Had turned against _him_. As though Dutch was the one to blame.

He wasn't...was he?

Dutch swallowing thickly. The lump in his throat, new thoughts on his mind. Still remembering what Hosea had said; that he was no better the Colm.

To that, he snarled. Irascible emotions taking over. He was _nothing_ like Colm. The man was deranged; a vile degenerate that he should have put down years ago. The man had taken _everything_ from him. It had started with a score, then it had been Annabelle. He had taken Arthur, and ultimately, he reasoned, Hosea from him.

And he would pay.

Eventually.

Cause though there was a desire to find the man, to hunt him down and whittle him away to nothing, Dutch knew there were other matters to attend to first. Time was ticking away. Precious now, a little window of opportunity that had opened. The law, no doubt racing to Bronte's place as he rode on. They would spend the better part of the next few days scouring, searching. Their attention drawn north, away from the city.

Hit the bank. Leave the area. Find somewhere safe.

Then he'd go after Colm. Would make the man regret ever crossing his path. Make him pay for all those he lost. Find out how he managed to sway Arthur....

Arthur...

Dutch feeling as though he was seeing things. As though mere thoughts had summoned him. He brought The Count to a halt. Watching as though the man before him was an apparition. Like death itself; a silhouette obscured by the fog.

Maybe it was his mind playing tricks on him.

Maybe he really ought to get some rest.

It could be anyone, he reasoned. Didn't have to be...him. But he could swear it was. Could see his eyes, peering out from under the hat. Worst of all...his horse. Because he'd recognize Dakota anywhere. Arthur more than proud of the latest steed he had acquired.

“Arthur?”

Somehow he found his voice. The sound breaking the silence. But no response came. Might as well been dreaming, he reasoned. The figure still there, sitting atop his horse. Unmoving. Dutch coaxed The Count into moving. Closing that gap.

Took a few steps.

Then the figure...Arthur...turned.

Bolted.

Dutch fast on his heels. Following now, without any rational thought.

They were racing north now. Peeling away from the swamps. Hooves thundering across a bridge. Wooden echos tearing through the night. Dutch's voice stuck in his throat. Words coming out in too high of a pitch.

“Arthur! Wait!”

Might as well been calling out to the wind. The man in front of him not slowing. If anything it only propelled him to go faster.

The Count was a demon for speed. Was built for it. Sleek and agile, could best any horse back at camp.

All except one.

Because Dakota had beaten him by a mile. That day not too long ago, and yet it felt like a lifetime had sped on by. It had been nothing more than a friendly competition, Arthur all grins and laughs as Dutch finally came racing into camp. Dutch on the verge of accusing him of cheating, brushing it off for a mild insult instead. Arthur biting back with his own retort. A warmth filling his chest, remembering.

Remembering that it all hadn't been bad.

That there had been some good.

He was unsure of what he was even doing. Of what he was trying to accomplish. Chasing him down like this.

Was he trying to finish him? Was he searching for answers?

Of course he wanted to know why. Wanted to know what Colm had offered. And he wanted... he wanted Arthur to come back.

Was it possible?

Was he truly willing to look past everything, to give him another chance?

All this and more, racing through his head. Suffocating him. His breaths hard to come by. The figure all but disappearing out of sight, swallowed up whole by the night. The apparition, vanished. Dutch felt something clenching in his heart. Feeling all too remorseful and all too relived all at once. Aching because the chance was gone. Appeased because he wouldn't have to face the reality of it. The Count slowing under him, spent. Huffing in displeasure as he rounded the corner, coming to a halt.

And there he was. Stood directly in the midst of the road, wisps of fog curling about him. Hiding everything away, the entire word disappearing. Leaving just them behind.

Dakota was spent as well, sides heaving under the man. There was a hand braced on his neck, Arthur stroking the flesh tenderly, but no words fell from his lips. Wouldn't even look his way, Dutch letting out a low breath as he closed the gap. Only a few feet remained between them now. An uncertain silence between them, interrupted by the thundering of his heart. A score of thoughts, tumbling over each other, eyes taking in his appearance.

He had lost weight and he looked...worn, exhausted...wrong. He looked wrong. Arthur's face pulled taut, a strange mixture of emotions that Dutch hadn't quite seen before. Undecided in what it wanted to be; he thought he had known him. Thought that after all this time, he deserved to _know_ what had happened _._ Deserved to know how the man who had been like a son to him was so vastly different than he remembered. There was a twinge of anger that struck deep within him as his thoughts caught up with him.

And that anger flared before he could stop it.

“Arthur,” he grit out, mind racing far too fast to catch, “what in the hell-”

“Is it true?” Arthur's face still roiled with those emotions, but he had shoved them back behind a thick blanket of calm. It set him on edge.

“Is _what_ true?”

“You sell me out to Colm?”

“Don't be a damn fool,” the laugh came, uneasy. The lie though? That was second nature for him.

“You...you have _any_ idea of the hell I went through?” Arthur hissed, his features twisted with an ugly flash of rage.

“Couldn't have been too bad,” Dutch spat back, an angry frown marring his face, “seeing as you're here.”

“'Scuse me?”

“I didn't want to believe it, son. I, despite all the proof, didn't want to believe that my own son...but there you was, riding with them O'Driscolls. And here we all thought you were dead. I suppose there is some poetry in that, seeing as you might as well have killed us all.”

“Have you lost your damn mind? I ain't _nothin'_ with Colm," he hissed, a pause before he continued. "But maybe I oughta, seeing how things are-”

“Loyalty, Arthur, it ain't-” he spat out. “Out of everyone I would never have thought you-”

“I gave you _everything_!” Arthur cut him off, voice nearly a yell. Voice falling a notch, still hard set _“Everything_ I had; twenty goddamn years-for this? For you to sell me off?”

“Arthur-”

“I done gave up Mary,” he went on, “My son, his mamma? They dead cause I weren't there like I should have been. Like I wanted to be, like you said I _couldn't_. I weren't there cause I was with _you._ And I was with you when you wanted to meet Colm, even though I told you we shouldn't. Even though I said it was a set up. I was still there. And after...after when I was half dead? Still I was fixin' to drag my sorry ass back to camp, trying to get back to you-to warn _you_. I done given you everything, Dutch, even when you was too stupid for your own good. But you-you didn't even have the goddamn decency to pretend to come lookin.”

Dutch swallowing thickly, a chill racing down his spine at the words. The outburst sudden, wrought with a type of anguish and anger he had never heard before. “I would never-”

“Would never what? Set me up? Or pretend that you actually cared?” his voice an angry growl. A glare in his eyes. Anger there. As well as something else. Desperation, perhaps.

“You've been talking to Hosea.”

Of course. It made sense now. Hosea had gone off to find him. Had found him, apparently. Had fed him all the lies, bolstered by his own beliefs. And Arthur would no doubt eat those up. Anything to sway others to his own cause. Use that knowledge to dredge up sympathy.

Arthur stared at him for a moment, his face fallen and haunted. Voice barely a whisper. “You sell him out, too?”

A pause, faint as it was. The question seeping into him slowly, like sodden material that was far too over saturated.

“What the hell you going on about?”

“God damn Pinkertons, Dutch!”

“What?” he frowned, mind racing, trying to pick up what the other was driveling on about. The change too sudden to latch on to.

“Pinkertons got him, he's-” Arthur swallowed, voice falling silent as he turned away. And Dutch felt something cold seep into the marrow of his bones.

“No...” his protest falling silent, his mind racing.

Hosea...he hadn't heard from the man in days. Had figured the man was still off, brooding somewhere. Hadn't once thought the man could be in danger. Because they had shaken the Pinkertons weeks ago. Had slipped from their grasp. And Dutch had hardly given them any thought, too preoccupied by Bronte.

“And you ain't even know about it?” Arthur whispered, that anger creeping back in. “You ain't have one goddamn clue; oh no, you too busy dragging everyone into deeper shit that you can't pull you're head outta your ass long enough to see-”

“That's enough!” he snapped, mind still awash in consternation, “you show some goddamn respect-”

His voice faltering as the gun was pulled free. A heartbeat of silence between them. The revolver aimed, ready to fire, held in a shaky hand. The sudden apprehension fleeting, a new resolve filling him as he tightened his fingers around the reigns to keep them at bay. To keep himself from engaging, from making things worse. Arthur, clearly, was not thinking straight. He took a breath, his voice, calmer when he spoke next.

“What...you gonna shoot me?” he goaded lightly.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn't,” Arthur replied, shoulders heaving in a shrug. “God knows I oughta. End this here, and I ain't ever need to look back.”

“Don't prove yourself a fool, son,” Dutch answered back, fingers still itching to draw. Feeling naked without the weight of a gun in his own hand.

“I ain't your son.”

“Arthur,” he let out a sigh, “put the gun down. We'll talk this out, like men.”

“Ain't no men here, Dutch,” Arthur breathed, “just a couple of devils. Hell, I done some bad things before, but at least I ain't slimy enough to screw over my own family. Way I see it, you always was a snake, bidin' your time with lies and all that bullshit about faith, waiting to strike when we turned our backs.”

The accusation hanging in the air, leaving him fuming. A flicker of rage burning inside his chest. Dutch scowled, words hard as he responded.

“That's enough. Now..I think it's best you moved along, _boy_. Cool your head 'fore you do something you regret. Run along and do whatever it is that you do; scurry back off to good ol' _uncle_ Colm and-”

He didn't get to finish.

Thunder tearing across the sky. Words caught in his throat, choking him. A searing pain in his side. Hand clutched up instinctively clamped against the gaping wound. He watched, eyes wide, mouth open as he stared at the crimson liquid seeping through his fingers, staining his pants.

He'd been shot.

_Arthur_ had shot him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah...
> 
> Lots to unpack here. Arthur's had some time to digest all that's happened, and Dutch continues to lose his mind with no one there to keep him in check. It was bound to happen, right? 
> 
> Let me know what your thoughts are, and I'll see all you wonderful readers on Friday!


	20. Creatures of the Night

For one, brief moment, the world had come to a standstill.

Blood was frozen in his veins, the gun heavy in his hand, as though it was weighed down by a thousand regrets. His fingers gripped so tightly they had gone numb.

Dutch sat atop The Count, a sanguine pattern blossoming on the white of the steed's flank, dripping steadily from between clenched fingers. A look of shock, pure and unaltered, plastered across the man's face. Turned dumbfoundedly as he slouched, fingers loose, body slipping free of the saddle and careening towards the ground. The Count dancing uneasily for a moment, before bolting, leaving the man behind.

Arthur let out a breath, caustic in his throat, blood thundering through him once more as he realized what had happened. A cumulation of horror and regret chasing away the anger that had festered so brightly there just moments ago.

What had he done?

“Christ,” the swear muttered out as he swung a leg free, sliding out of the saddle. Boots hitting the forest floor as holstered his gun, closing the gap between them. Dutch strewn out, hands still hastily clasped against the wound, struggling to sit himself up. The man batting him away weakly as he reached out.

“Let me help,” he ground out, shrugging out of his jacket without hesitation.

“No, that's quite alright-think you helped out enough,,” Dutch rasped, letting out a pained hiss as the wadded fabric was pressed against the wound. It was hard to see, light fleeting in the night, the dark stain spreading quick. The air was scented with copper and the very edges of smoke, each mingling with the natural, musty aroma that hung in the air. Arthur grit his teeth and pressed against the wound hard.

Dutch yelped, face screwed up tight.

“Shit— goddamn it.”

“Oh hush— quit actin’ like this is the first damn time you been shot,” Arthur grumbled, pushing his fear and worry aside. Digging back down, finding that anger he had held only moments ago. He refused to let his emotions get hold of him, to control him. Anger was easy, his frustration flaring as Dutch tried to push him off.

“Gotta stop the bleeding, Dutch,” he snapped, pushing down only harder on the wound. Perhaps revealing in the pained wheeze that he squeezed out of him a little too much. It was a cathartic feeling, knowing and wanting the man to hurt perhaps as much as he did. To help him understand the pain that was ripe within his own chest.

“What are you tryin' to accomplish here?” Dutch wondered, a groan through tightly grit teeth. “Thought you wanted me dead.”

“I don't; against my better judgment.”

“Coulda fooled me, seeing as you goddamn shot me-”

“Oh that you deserve” Arthur growled, “Ain't mean I want you dead, though.”

He wasn't even sure of what he wanted, his hands working on their own accord. Anger, fear, dread-all these and more racing through him as he tried to staunch the bleeding. To undo what he had just done. Heart racing quick beneath his skin.

The bullet had gone clean through him, perhaps a small bit of fortune. They wouldn't have to worry about digging it out. Arthur pulled his knife free, unthinking, simply working the blade through his sodden coat, cutting it down into strips. Strips which he then used to wrap around his stomach, tying it off tightly. Another low gasp escaping the man.

“There, that should hold till we-till you get back.”

Because he wasn't going back. Couldn't go back. Not with the way things were. A deep ache in his heart still, his chest tight, uneasy.

“And how am I going to manage that?” Dutch wondered, his words sardonic in nature. “Damn horses took off.”

And they had. The Count long gone and Dakota...no longer there. The horse must have cantered off while he was busy with Dutch, so focused on the man he hadn't even noticed.

“Guess you gonna have to walk,” Arthur replied nonchalantly, moving to his feet. He offered a hand towards him, to help him up. It was steadfastly ignored, the man struggling up on his own. Hunched over, a hand still pressed to the wound, a grimace on his face.

"Like hell am I gonna walk through-where the hell are we anyhow?"

He had a vague idea, the obscurity of the fog making it difficult to tell for certain. But he reckoned they were near Roanake; they certainly had come far enough, after all. He watched as the man staggered, making his way off the road, falling against a tree. Hands holding firm to keep himself upright, clearly battling against the pain.

Arthur let out a curse.

“Right-you just stay here. Take it easy, why don't ya? Put your feet up, have a smoke. I'll see if I can find the horses.”

He turned away, barely hearing the muttered response, a curse by the sounds of it. Anger still welled up inside of him as he let out a whistle, working his way down the road. He wasn't sure why he was doing all this. What he was hoping to accomplish. Anything between them was long gone, but he was ever still the fool. Still trying to help him when he should just let well enough alone. If only he could turn and leave the fool to figure this all out on his own. But he couldn't-and how he hated that he couldn't. The conflict ripe within him as he wandered.

His ears were straining, listening for telltale beats of hooves. He heard everything but instead; whispers of wind creaking the branches above his head, the rustling of leaves as they pulled free from branches, falling to the ground. Soft huffs, animals of the night creeping through. The hairs on the back of his neck standing up, remembering just then that this was cougar territory.

Wouldn't that just be the icing on the cake?

He pulled his gun free as he forced himself to keep moving, to whistle once more. The sound, echoing around him. Swallowing back the fear that was rising. His heart all caught up in his throat as he slowly came to a halt, the fog ever thicker than before. It felt as though he were choking; suddenly found it hard to breath. Found himself backing up slowly. Shapes, faint in the fog. Growing vivid as the seconds ticked by. Then, the faint murmur of laughter was hanging thick in the air.

He'd rather face a cougar.

The speculation heavy in his mind as he turned. Hurrying back; finding Dutch right where he had left him. The man's sharp gaze peering into him, an edge of anger there as he drew close. A snarl on his lips as Arthur reached out, taking hold of him.

“What are you-”

“Keep quiet!” he snapped in return, thrusting an arm around his shoulders. “We gotta move, and quick.”

“Arthur,” came the protest, cut off by a groan as they went. Hobbling all too slowly for his liking. “What in the world-”

Words cut off by a new threat. The laughter back, a rancorous sound emitting behind them. A low whistle, the accent heavy.

“ _Looks like we got some visitors, cousins.”_

It sent a shiver through his spine. Encouraged him to move even faster. Ignoring Dutch's protests as went. He should have known better. Should have realized...

“ _These Murfree hills, everythin' in it, belongs to us.”_

“Shit-” the curse heavy in his ears. Heart pounding all the more. They had to get out of here.

“Friends of yours, I presume?” Dutch grumbled, turning to look behind them. The man unaware of the danger they were in. Yet of course, why would he be any the wiser?

“Take it you never been up this way?” Arthur shot back, trying to hurry along. The man protesting as he was almost dragged.

“Can't say that I have-” he rasped.

“Course not,” he returned, bitterness in his voice, “Too busy staying safe at camp, reading your books.”

“You really think now is the proper time for this?”

The irony not lost on him, the both of them flinching, bullets missing them by inches. He could hear Dutch curse, the man perhaps realizing just then the trouble they had found. The man pulled free his Schofield, firing blindly back into the night as he was pulled along. It prompted laughter, each of the bullets missing their mark.

“ _We like a good scrape, don't we boys?”_

Footsteps hurried behind them. Sounding louder in his ears. Too slow...they were going too slow. Arthur swore, dropping to one knee, arm wrapping around the man's legs, hefting him over his shoulder. Another curse tearing through the air, the blood warm against his skin, staining his shirt.

“Arthur-”

“Just hang tight, and keep it down,” he snapped, peeling off the road. Moving into the woods. The fog was thick. Heavy. It should provide them the cover they needed. If they could keep quiet, find a place to hide they might-just might stand a chance. The gunfire loud in his ear as Dutch popped off a few more rounds.

“Shit Dutch, stop,” he swore at the other, “we tryin' to lose them.”

“Ain't afraid to fight, son,” Dutch growled, his breath hitching into a groan as Arthur jostled him. He came to rest against a tree, set him down easy, breaths heavy in his chest.

“There's too many of them to fight, you fools. They all over these hills, and they ain't kind to folk they catch, so shut your mouth,” Arthur grumbled, ears straining, listening. Ignoring the miffed look that raised the man's eyebrows. Dutch didn't take kindly to disrespect. Probably took less favor to being shot. Arthur was sure there was a speech in the near future about both these transgressions. One he'd happily listen to-when they were less in danger of falling victim to a horrid fate. 

Because Dutch might not know. But he surely did.

The Murfrees were whispered about within the towns. Tales of folk disappearing in these woods. Of the horrors discovered, bodies too disfigured to even identify. If they even was found.

Truth was, these roads were hardly safe to travel during the day, let alone the night. Anyone crossing had to move, and move quick. Delays were a death sentence, and their foolery had all but invited them in. Arthur knew well why the road west towards Emerald Ranch was a more desired route despite being longer. Stuck here, their horses long gone, and the hollers were easy to hear, echoing around them. Confused shouts, mellifluous coaxing, an attempt to draw them out. Branches cracking, twigs snapping as they wandered through the brush.

Then...silence.

Deafening. Encumbering.

He found it hard to breathe. Eyes locking with Dutch, the man, slouched against the tree, sweat beaded across his brow. Pain written clearly on his face, guilt striking deep in his heart. The remorse he tried to push away. It wasn't something he wanted to think about. Wasn't something he could change. Wasn't sure he would even if he could; bastard rightly deserved it. Yet there was the smallest bit of relief, perhaps, that the shot hadn't been fatal.

Wouldn't be fatal...provided he could get the man somewhere, get him patched up proper before he bled out. He shouldn't...God knew the fool didn't deserve it, and no one would blame him, he knew. But Arthur always figured he was more of a fool. Letting himself be played like he had been. Like he still was.

Because he should have left him there. Should have sped away on Dakota, gotten the hell out of here. Should have...

What?

He wasn't sure. Because he hadn't even been sure of where he was going. Of what he was doing. He had left Annesburg in tears. A fire burning deep in his core, consuming all rational thought. Hadn't even realized he had headed south until he crossed paths with Dutch. Hadn't even been looking for him.

Not really.

His goal aimless. Full of hurt, full of anger. Wanting to hurt someone in return. Anyone. The first person who had crossed his path, regardless of guilt. Deep and dark desires drawing him down to the depths of Hell. A moment where the thought had been fleeting. To storm into camp and hold them all responsible. Trying to reason, to rationalize why it wouldn't be a good idea, but unable to stop himself as he made his way south.

As he made his way towards Shady Belle. The thought faint, but there.

And then he had seen him. There in the bayou. Right at the crossroads, all that hate and anger surging forward. Wanting nothing more than to end things then. Fighting against the urge, battling the demon that was wresting for control. He had turned back round, had turned back north. Wanting then to just disappear. To flee as far as he could.

He had tried. Had pushed Dakota until the horse could give no more.

And Dutch had followed.

He wasn't sure why.

Dutch hadn't come for him before. Why would he then? Why had he now? The man wrought with anger, full of accusations. Full of denial, though poorly said. A sourness settling on his tongue, making him sick. Fighting back the nausea that threatened to take hold. Not here...not now. Later...he'd let himself fall apart later. Away from here. Away from... _him_.

He set his face hard, praying he would betray no emotion. Praying he could get out of here well alive. He took a few steps out. Eyes searching, scanning the fog for any signs. Voice heavy as he broke the silence.

“I think...think we lost 'em-”

The bullet missing him by mere inches. Burying itself into the tree Dutch held onto. Bark exploding, splinters raining down around them. A joyful whoop filling the air, the hunt resumed. Arthur grasped Dutch firmly, ignored his protests as he slung the man back over his shoulder, taking off running. Gunfire sounding in his ear, Dutch returning the attack best he could. By the screams that split the air he figured the man hit at least one of them.

Working his way down the hill now. Towards the river. If they could cross it, get back on the main road, maybe they'd be lucky enough to stumble across a traveler. Get the hell out of here. Leave these fools behind. The plan loose, but driving him forward. Stumbling over a upturned root, Dutch groaning, biting back a curse as he pushed himself back up.

"I'm out of goddam bullet,” the man spat out, words shrouded in pain.

“Here,” he pulled his own gun free, held it up. Felt the man take it. More shots. They were damn lucky they hadn't been hit yet. But it felt like their luck had run out. The ground swallowing them whole.

It had been there one moment.

Gone the next.

His stomach lurching as he fell. Air forced from his lungs as he hit, and hit hard. Blinking, dazed. Realized somewhere beyond his confusion that Dutch was yelling. What he couldn't be sure of. Arthur was trying to push himself up, to shake the dizziness. Wincing as he pressed a hand to his head, fingers coming back coated in blood. His or Dutch's he wasn't sure.

He suddenly felt sick. Head pounding as he closed his eyes. He could feel a hand land on his arm, fingers digging into his flesh, Dutch sounding oddly panicked, voice soft in his ear.

“ _No...come on, son. On your feet-”_

He batted him away, weakly.

He didn't want to listen. Knew he was supposed to be angry with him, but couldn't rightly remember why.

A moment.

All he needed was a moment. Sinking heavy into the ground beneath him, dirt and debris loose beneath his hold as the world spun around him.

He only needed a moment...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> Well, consider yourself lucky ducklings that I even managed to get this chapter up! Day two of no power after a lovely storm came to visit, and it's looking like a few more days before we see anything. But lucky lucky, I found internet, so here you go!
> 
> At least, luckier than Dutch and Arthur...
> 
> Stay safe all you ducklings, and I'll see you on Tuesday! 
> 
> :)


	21. Doubts

They had taken his rings.

The spineless cowards all but pinning him down, working them off his fingers. Calling them trinkets as they fawned over them, marveling at how they glittered in the firelight. Fought amongst themselves like sewer rats, all the while Dutch tried to fight back. Not that he was in a position to do much. His bullets spent, blood leaking from his gut, the pain stealing away his breath as well as his strength and Arthur...

Arthur was out cold.

Breathing, but unmoving. A gash set deep across his temple. Dutch figured he must have hit it on one of the wooden spikes on the way down. The trap had been perfectly laid, a pit dug deep within the ground. Foliage spread across the surface to conceal it from the untrained eye. And with the fog...they hadn't had any chance. The Murfrees, as they so called themselves had hopped in after them, on them within seconds like a hive of ants. Had tied them up with little effort. Had slung them over their shoulders, carting them off.

Dragging them down into the depths of the earth. Were he any more foolish, he might've thought they were mere steps from Hell itself. Hell, perhaps, if it wasn't so damn cold. This bone-chilling frigidity that burrowed into his core was a far cry from the fire and brimstone he'd read about.

Maybe it wasn't Hell at all. Purgatory, then. Someplace equally as damning. He wasn't a religious enough man to know for sure. But he was certain this was some form of punishment for all his misdeeds. Had to be...the sights gruesome enough to feed his nightmares for years to come.

Bodies were strewn along the cave. Torn to shreds, battered and broken. Some hanging, others skewered clean through, stuck fast the walls. Things conjured by the devil himself, no doubt. The entire ordeal making him ill, bile resting heavy on his tongue as he gagged. The stench, overwhelming. Death coating everything, heavy like a blanket as they were taken further inside.

They had been carried far to the depths; dumped unceremoniously in a pitiful excuse for a cage. He in one side, Arthur across the way. The man still unaware, ire rising in Dutch's chest as he watched them paw through the man's things. Anything of value taken, the rest dumped in a heap on the floor.

And just like that, they were gone.

Several long, agonizing moments passing. Dutch's heart beating fast in his chest, hands flexing behind him, trying to pull free. Efforts in vain; these fools might lack decency, but they knew how to tie a knot. His frustration mounting. Giving in soon after, utterly spent, body sagging into the wall behind him.

Damn he hurt.

It had been a long time since he had last been shot. And then it had been a bullet to his arm. A right nuisance it had been, but hardly a danger. Hardly like...this...

It was still bleeding. The warmth seeping ever lower, the patching Arthur had done long saturated, doing little to impede the flow. More blood on him than in him, felt like. Rate he was going it wouldn't take long for that to be the truth. Maybe that was preferable to whatever these monsters had in store. The thought nauseating, the knowledge sitting ill with him.

Because Arthur had done this.

Arthur had shot him.

His own son...

Bile, thick and bitter, sat on his tongue. Choking almost as he swallowed it back down. His own goddamn son...

The man, worryingly still, flat on the ground across the way. A small twinge of concern pooling in his gut as he watched him, hearing the labored breaths. It was a brief moment of weakness that was chased away by anger. A reminder that this was all his doing.

His betrayal.

Dutch should have recognized it sooner. Supposed it was his own ego that he had let it go unchecked for far far too long. Unwilling to recognize that something was amiss right under his nose. Arthur, unchecked, gallivanting around god knows where for days on end; if he hadn't been swayed before the beginning of those long excursions, he surely would have been eventually, gone as often as he was.

He wasn't sure what, but he knew that something had changed. Knew that something had happened, pushing him from the lackadaisical man to the ruthless bastard that had turned on him. The wonder sitting heavy with him. Curious now. Because he knew...

Knew that Arthur was an expert marksman. Had Arthur wanted him dead, then he would be already, of that there was no doubt. The shot more a warning than a death sentence even though it would quickly become that if nothing was done. And after? The man had even gone as far as to try and help, had somewhat succeeded in staunching the blood. Had done his best to get him out of there, when he could very well have left him behind.

So why hadn't he?

If Arthur truly had turned his back on him, if he was running with Colm or hell, even on his own, what purpose did it serve him to stay and help? To risk himself when all other options had been burnt? It didn't make sense, the confusion sweeping into him. Turmoil rising up, encumbering him. Arthur's words racing back to him.

_I gave you everything._

The man, just a boy, plucked from the streets. Thin as a twig and angry as a viper, having no one and nothing. He and Hosea, the two of them, trying to wrangle in an unruly child. A decision they had made instantly, with no forethought. A decision they hadn't regretted as as that child grew, fierce and strong and loyal...

Arthur had always been loyal.

Dutch swallowing, the thought striking deep. Arthur had been with them since the beginning. The three of them, the original guard. He had helped get them out of more scrapes than he could count. Had always been the one to hang back, always the one to get others out. All the times he put himself on the line..all the sacrifices he made...because Dutch had asked it of him. Had expected it...had demanded it.

He was right. Because Dutch had talked him down from following Mary; she never felt right to him. Always criticizing Arthur, always trying to seduce him, draw him away from his family. And then there had been the other. What was her name again? A frown furrowing his brow. He couldn't remember.

Could only remember that when she was heavy with child that Arthur had wanted to leave. Had wanted to be with them. And Dutch had pulled him back from that as well. For his own good, Dutch had told him. Because he didn't want to see the boy, hardly a man, tied down. Stuck to this...woman, indentured to her due to one mistake.

They had plans...plans that would surely go awry without him there. And Arthur had conceded. Had stuck to simply visiting whenever they were in the area. Then it had happened...that night when he came home brokenhearted, stone cold and uncaring, disfigured by grief at their loss. Dutch could remember that well. Arthur had blamed him for it, a brief muttering that came from a place of grief. Forgotten the next morning when they had headed out for greener pastures. Never spoken of again, until just now. The man still holding onto anger that should have been long gone.

There were many reasons for the man to have turned. And yet...Arthur had followed him without question. All these years. Loyalty...It was what Dutch had asked. It was what the man had given. The realization dim. Understanding.

Understanding that he had all but delivered Arthur into Colm's waiting arms. That if anyone was to blame for all of this, it was he himself.

He hadn't been there. After the meeting.

Dutch had waited for near an hour at the crossroads, and there had been no signs of him. Micah and him combing the area, coming up empty handed. It hadn't taken long to figure things out, to piece things together. To realize something was amiss. Micah talking him down from doing something rash. From doing something stupid. Something he'd regret.

Because by then it had been hours. And with no whispers from Colm, the chances of Arthur's survival were slim. Colm was not one to show restraint. He had displayed that trait already, his ruthlessness taken out on Annabelle. Yet another person he had lost to Colm. And now the man had Arthur.

And Arthur, he was sure, was dead already. Colm wouldn't let him live and Micah had said it best. Why risk lives for a dead man? It was unfortunate, but sometimes things happened. Things they couldn't change. They were out here, trying to survive. Trying to ensure some of them made it out alive. There was nothing they could do for Arthur-but his fate would not be in vain.

No...it had served as a distraction. A means for them to get ahead. His passing, unfortunate, but unavoidable. Or so he thought. Because Arthur had somehow survived.

_I was half-dead, fixin' to drag myself back to camp to warn ya._

He had gotten out. Had gotten away. His boy, a survivor. A fighter...he should have known. Should have known that Arthur wasn't one to give up. To give in. Somehow he had managed. Somehow he had made it; but where...where had he been all this time?

A groan, quiet and muffled caught his attention. The scraping of fabric against stone. A hitch in the labored breathed he'd listened to so carefully. Dutch watching as Arthur began to stir. Fingers clenching behind his back, wrists testing the bonds that were there. He swallowed.

“You with me?”

“Course, Dutch,” the murmur came. Perhaps more by practice than actual sentiment; reflex rather than response. Breaths heavy, a few rough gulps. Words still slurred as he wondered, “Where...where we at?”

“God damn fools took us to some cave-don't rightly know where.”

There was a hum, a pause as he drew in a sharp breath. “Beaver's Hollow?”

“How should I know?”

“Thought you knew everythin' Dutch,” the man retorted. The sardonic nature lost on him.

“Well, I am sorry to disappoint, but turns out I'm not actually omniscient.”

There was a scoff, the man shuffling, working his way off the floor. Managing to get to his knees, scooting back against the wall. The motion leaving him dizzy, if any indication by the way he squeezed his eyes shut. Even in the low light, Arthur was looking bad.

“Why you even here?”

The question, absurd. Dutch laughing from the irony of it all. “I'm here cause some Yankee fool shot me; or did that knock on your head finally kill your last lick of sense?”

He worried for a brief flash of a moment that it actually might have, as Arthur took a little too long to reply.

“Ain't what I meant,” Arthur droned, pointedly ignoring the insult. “Hell is you doin' clear up this way? Bit far from camp...on your lonesome, might I add?”

“I am capable of heading out on my own, Arthur. You aren't the only one allowed to head out on little foray's.”

“Figured you'd head out for a little stroll, enjoy the night air, 's at it? Seeing as you got plenty of time for your little foray's, makes me think you coulda spent half a second looking for your own goddamn son.”

The bitterness there easy to hear, if apparent in the look on his face, Dutch cringing inwardly. Recent remorse creeping back in. Remorse he tried to push down, to swallow back. Pretending indifference instead. There was no weakness in apathy

“I know it might be hard for you to understand, but there were reasons-”

“Screw the reasons, Dutch,” Arthur spat out, angry now, more than bitter. “I told you it was a set up; told you it didn't feel right, I told you we shouldn't go, but damn it, I went anyway, and he-he,” Arthur swallowed thick. The memory clearly paining him.

“You know the bastard strung me upside down in a cellar, like I was some damn game waiting to be butchered? Beat the hell outta me. Them fools blew a hole in my shoulder-I nearly lost my damn arm cause of it. I was there for _days_ , Dutch. Ain't even sure how many. You have any idea how...” A shaking exhale, barely suppressed, “I was waiting. Thought that was it for me, but I hoped that maybe...maybe you might- But you didn't, did you? Didn't even try-”

“Arthur, I-”

“Didn't even care, did ya? Your goddamn son dying in a cellar and you was more concerned with your goddamned plans.”

The spiel done almost as soon as it started. His breaths, heavy, the man winded. Eyes closed once more, head resting against the rocky wall behind him. Dutch felt that twinge of remorse again. The images, appearing. Images he had suppressed those first few nights. Not wanting to think, to conjure the possibilities of what might have happened. Of what might be happening.

Of what he had dammed Arthur to.

All too vivid now. Dancing within his head. Of Arthur hurting, of being hurt. The torment, no doubt severe, Colm having long lost any love for Dutch and his men. And Arthur...Arthur was a special prize for him. One of the few people Dutch had left that he truly cared about. Had cared about, for all these years.

Had he been a fool?

Dutch sat there, stewing in those thoughts. Arthur across the way, eyes still closed, almost as though he once again had drifted. Struggling, no doubt, with the pain, just as he was. Dutch, once again faced with uncertainty. Unsure of what to think. Of what to believe.

He didn't know.

Not anymore.

And that scared him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So....Dutch and Arthur are talking at least. Though not in the best of situations. There is, for sure, a lot on the plate to discuss and you can BET this isn't close to being over. Wonder how it'll all end...?
> 
> I know how it'll end, but do share your thoughts on how you *think* it should end. 
> 
> :)
> 
> And I'll see all you on Friday.


	22. Escape

Time passed.

Seconds edging by like minutes.

Minutes crawling by as though they were hours.

Days could have gone by, and they would be none the wiser. Trapped here, in this god forsaken pit in the ground, no way of knowing what was transpiring above them.

They hadn't talked; both opting to stay silent. Lost in their own thoughts, perhaps.

Until a scream split the air.

Bloodcurdling; sending a jolt right through him. Dutch wincing as the skin tore around the wound, a curse falling from his lips as fresh blood seeped through the cloth. That he ignored, his attention on the muffled sobs, the sounds raw enough to rouse Arthur, the younger man groggily lifting his head up across the way, a deep frown creasing his face.

“Damn bastards,” the breathy reply came a moment later. It seemed almost as though he knew what was going on.

Dutch was tempted to ask, but afraid of the answer. Wishing, if anything, that it would stop, and wincing when it suddenly did. He wasn't sure if the silence was any better. His heart, thundering in his chest. He opted for clearing his throat, to break the uneasy silence between them. Wanting a distraction.

Any distraction.

“How you-how you holding up, son?”

“Better than whoever's up there,” the murmur came, his voice still gruff. Still on edge; if from him, or what was taking place above, he couldn't be sure. Though his voice softened when he spoke next. “You?”

Dutch laughed, something soft and pitiful. “Well, despite your best efforts, I am still alive, for the moment. Bastards stole my rings though; the damn fools.”

“Yeah?” he scoffed across the way, “consider yourself lucky they ain't cut your fingers off to get them.”

He clenched his fists, the gruesome thought racing through his head. “They wouldn't-”

“You even hear that? And I'm sure you saw them poor fools up there on the way in?” Arthur grounded out, “All gutted and strewn around. How you think that even happened in the first place?”

As if he needed the reminder. The slaughter, thick and rich with the tang of blood assaulting his senses, not too unlike the blood that coated him already. Things he would rather not think about. But something about it sat funny with him, his brow furrowing. Distinctively remembering that Arthur was still unaware during that time when they were carted past. Maybe not as unaware as he first thought.

“How do you know about all that?”

“Folk talk,” the response came. “You hear stories-stories about folk gone missing. Just vanished. Entire wagons disappeared, swallowed up in these hills. 'N I might have stumbled across here once, on accident. Got out as quick as I could when it happened.”

He scoffed, “What? You scared?”

“Ain't you?” Arthur wondered, unmoved by the jeer. “These folk...they ain't human, Dutch. They monsters. They'll cut you up...eat you alive...tear you apart little by little until you be begging for death. And if you lucky, they might let you have it, 'fore you bleed out.”

“Well, isn't that a lovely thought,” he grumbled, wincing as he shifted. “Remind me to not let you tell young Jack any bedtime stories.”

“Don't think you gonna have to worry about that.”

“What?” Dutch frowned, wondering, “you giving up already? We have only just _begun_ -why, soon as we get free we'll show these _Murfree's_ just who they think they're dealing with.”

Arthur glanced over at him, the look on his face unreadable. “You meant to tell me you got another one of your famous plans?”

“As it happens, yes,” the lie came easy. Unwilling to give in. To give up. “Just be patient.”

“Right....so this...this is working out for you then?”

Dutch paused, hesitant but unyielding, “I know what I'm doing, son. A little faith is all I ask.”

“You of all people don't get to ask for that,” he growled, “not from me. 'Sides...faith don't seem to be worth too much these days. Not sure if you've noticed, Dutch, but your plans ain't been all that great lately.”

“I...know things haven't exactly been working in our favor, but we will get out of this. And I promise...this is gonna be a good one.”

“Oh, well...if it's a good one,” Arthur let out a sigh. “Didn't you say Blackwater was a 'good one'? And that whole business with Cornwall? Well, if that weren't a good one I ain't sure I know what is. Time of my life there.”

“There is no need to gloat, Arthur. I'm well aware-”

“Oh, and we can't forget about Colm. Best one yet; felt pretty damn good about that for sure. Now Jack...was having him kidnapped one of yours too? I'm having trouble keeping up with what's working and what ain't.”

How the man knew of that, he wasn't quite sure. The temptation to ask there, but overshadowed by something more ruthless. Something cold.

He felt that a lot these days, it seemed.

“If I failed you so greatly, then why, pray tell, did you come back?” Dutch wondered, face set in a deep frown. “Coulda left me there, been long gone from this place.”

“Because despite all the _shit_ you done put me through, despite all them years spent at your beck and call, by some goddamned miracle I ain't like you.”

“What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means,” the man responded pointedly.

“Enlighten me, why don't you?” Dutch prompted, his own anger, simmering just beneath his skin.

“You _left_ me,” Arthur opened his eyes, glaring at him. “You gave me up to Colm just to save your own damn skin. And after all that preaching of how we don't leave men behind.”

He swallowed, turning away. “I...I did look for you, you know.”

“Bullshit.”

“I _did_ ,” he emphasized, “right after. We searched the area. When we couldn't find you we figured out that they must have taken you. I...Micah said there wasn't much we could do and he-well he had a point, and-”

“Must've been a hell of a point...”

“Arthur-”

“And you just figured you'd what? Lie, to everyone? Tell them I was off, having the time of my life, is that it? What then, when I didn't come back? You tell them I run off? Tell them I was some kind of traitor, meanwhile I'm rotting in some cellar?”

“There wasn't any other choice,” Dutch protested. “If I told them-they...well they'd want to go after you, and I knew it was a trap-”

“Of course it was a damn trap,” Arthur cut him off. “Colm was...Colm was fixing to set the law on you. Figured you'd come chasing after me. Catch you unaware-turn you all in, then take off with the bounties. Told him he was a fool for thinking it would work. But guess we both were fools to expect you to even come.”

“Arthur, son-”

“Answer me this,” he cut him off. “Why the hell would I run with him? After all these years, after all the shit he's done-why would you even think I'd fool around with the likes of Colm?”

“What do you want me to say?” Dutch wondered quietly. “You've been doubting me, ever since Blackwater. What else was I supposed to think?”

“ _Doubting_?” there was surprise in his voice, followed by a hint of anger, “Tell me, Dutch; That you talking? Or is it Micah?”

The mere mention of the man sent a flurry through him. Anger now. “ _Micah_ is the only one of you with any damn sense-”

“ _Micah_ is two bullets shy of a full chamber, Dutch. That coward has wormed his way into your head and set up shop, and you’re too damn foolish to see it. Shoulda never picked him up, much less let him run with us- _another_ thing I warned you against. But do you listen? No, ‘course not. Too important to listen to the likes of us, those who’ve been with you twenty odd years!”

“We are not having this discussion, Arthur. _Micah stays_ ; he's always there when called upon,” he pointed out, bitterly. “Don't have to wonder where the hell he's gone off to, unlike you.”

“Course I've been getting off,” Arthur growled, shifting again, “Been trying to keep twenty people fed. You any idea how much work that is?”

“I-”

“No...you ain't got no idea. You only ever worried about one damn person- _yourself_. Long as you was taken care of, the rest of us could rot, ain’t that right? I _go_ 'cause someone has to. These big jobs of yours? Seem like they go wrong more often than not and leave us deeper in the hole than we were before. We need steady income, Dutch; we need food, supplies-and weren’t no one else stepping up.”

“That's what you would have me believe?” Dutch wondered coldly. “You come back, you don't say a word of where you've been, and I’m supposed to just take your word for it? What if something happened at camp, Arthur? We gotta send someone to track you down- you think we can just spare men like that?”

“Didn't realize I had to share every aspect of my life, Dutch. You want me to tell you every time I go take a piss too?”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“You ain't ever cared what I've been up to before,” Arthur growled, “Why start now?”

“I've always cared-”

“Cut the crap,” he snapped. “You haven't cared for me in a long while, if ever.”

  
  
“You know that's not true.”

“Oh ain't it? Cause you surely didn't give a shit when I was freezing my ass off in the mountains tryin' to find food, or how about when I spent three days runnin' from bounty hunters after that mess in Valentine? Nah, you didn't care. I got back, exhausted as dead and all you wanted was to send me off again. Told me buckle down and have _faith_ , right before you went back to reading. Let's not forget there were plenty of other sorry souls in camp whittling away time doing nothing-no, let's have _Arthur_ take care of it all on his own.”

“Well obviously I didn't know-”

“Course you didn't know. Never bothered to ask, didja? Too busy waiting to send me to fix another problem that done cropped up that no one else could, or rather, _would_ , do. Never thought to call them traitors; never thought to keep after them, did ya? Tell me-when Bill or John or Javier ain't wanna do somethin', you gonna sell them out too? Or was that special, just for me?”

Maybe it was delirium caused by blood loss, or maybe Arthur actually had a point. Dutch wasn't sure which. He sat silent for a moment. Processing everything he had said. His chest aching and more than just from the wound.

Had he really been that oblivious? He knew he asked a lot of Arthur, but times had been tough as of late-they hadn't really a chance to catch their breath. Maybe, just maybe he _had_ asked too much...

“I just...I just don't know,” he finally breathed, his head drooping. His mind whirling. The silence taking over once more. Uneasy breaths between them, muffled sounds far above. He closed his eyes, drawing in a breath, his voice quiet.

“It's not like you made things easy, you know?” he lamented, a poor excuse, but one nonetheless. “You were unruly as a kid; hell, you haven't ever really grown out of that.”

“Well, 'scuse for being an inconvenience,” the man replied bitterly. “I ain't ever had a _civilized_ upbringing like you did. Nah-I got raised by a conman and liar, so you'll have to forgive me for being _unruly_.”

“I didn't mean it like that.”

“Seems like there's a lot you didn't mean,” Arthur scoffed, “Way I see it-can't really trust anything you've got to say.”

“Arthur-”  
  


“Whatever shit you're fixin to spew, save it. I ain't wanna hear it.”

The anger so vehement he felt as though he had been slapped, Dutch's mouth snapping shut. For a moment, he hated the man. Hated the brusque disrespect. Raw fury surging through him as bit back a retort, studying the other. Arthur's face pulled tight in a grimace, the bitterness evident in every feature. That fury, slipping away, into something regretful. Remorseful because he knew the man was right.

What a damn fool he was.

“Arthur, I know that things haven't worked out to plan-”

“Shit,” the curse came, cutting through his words. Odd sounding, not entirely directed at him for once. Dutch watching with a frown as the man leaned forward, his hands in front of him now. Fingers rubbing at his wrists.

“How did you-” his voice, trailing off.

“Damn bastards took my guns, but they didn't take my knife,” the man grumbled, moving to his feet. “Had a hell of a time reaching it.”

The explanation simple, the blade sliding through the ropes that held the cage together. Arthur free of his confines, kneeling down to gather his discarded items. Slinging the satchel over his head, his gaze drifting up towards the exit. Towards freedom. The fire from the torches dancing off his silhouette as he moved slowly, purposefully away. A small pang of fear, of abandonment, racing through him.

“Arthur, son, wait-”

Only to be shushed. Out of caution or annoyance he wasn't sure. Arthur disappearing from view, swallowed up by the darkness. Leaving him behind.

Alone.

He was alone. Left the mercy of these ghastly creatures that scurried through the dark. The fear, thick and palpable as he swallowed. Part of him knowing it was justified. That Arthur had more than enough reason to head off, to leave him behind. Hell, there was shaky cause before the mess with Colm, all the more cemented given the fate he had left him too. Dutch wondering if, perhaps, this sinking despair was similar to what Arthur had gone through, trapped alone in that cellar at the whims of a madman.

Yet Colm almost seemed sane compared to these bastards. Surely Arthur wouldn't damn him to this cruel fate. Images, all too vivid, reappearing. The corpses, stripped naked and flayed open, cut into bit and parts. Skewered and pierced clean through, eyes frozen wide open in a horrific gaze. The shudder racing through him, bringing with it a wave of pain. His heart, ticking up a pace as he heard someone approach.

He managed to bluster, to pull a calm facade over his features at the last moment. And none too soon, Arthur reappearing, knife in hand. The man grasping the bars of his own cage. Dutch felt a wave of relief, of confusion, all crashing into each other.

“Thought you had gone,” he managed to mutter out, his worry concealed by a weak laugh. A heavy scoff coming from the other.

“Me? I ain't one to leave men behind, remember?”

He remembered. That accusation still fresh on his mind. Wincing as Arthur dropped near him, flinching as hands brushed along his side, pausing. Fingers cool against the wound, the man's face tight as he drew back, hands covered in blood.

“Damn fool,” he hissed, “why didn' you say you was bleeding again?”

“And what did you intend to do about it?” he wondered, mildly amused. Watching as Arthur took his vest off, the knife making quick work in slicing it into ribbons. More strips of fabric wound around him, pulled taut. It drew a whimper, and actual whimper from him, the pain arching through his side, up into his chest.

“Gonna have to get you looked after proper,” Arthur whispered, fingers on his arm, drawing him forward. He felt the cold blade slide between his wrists, a jerking motion as he was cut free. His arms, sore from the strain, slowly coming back to life.

“That can wait til we're out of here,” Dutch muttered, knowing there was truth in those words. Get out first, then figure out what to do from there. If anything...long as he didn't die here, he'd be a happy man. “You happen to find any guns on your little venture?”

“None that'll benefit us,” he answered grimly. “They all up top, a horde of them it seems. Ain't no way we gonna push through that.”

“Well, I for one, will not just sit here and wait for them to come to us. We head up that way, catch them by surprise and-”

“And what?” Arthur wondered, amused, “ you gonna bleed on them?”

“Trust me,” he fumbled for the words, “I've got a plan-”

“You ain't got two licks of sense to rub together,” Arthur held him firm as he drew him to his feet. A godsend seeing as his legs wobbled beneath him. Apparently he had lost more blood than he thought.

“Well, then, what do _you_ propose?” he was tired of this run around. Tired of Arthur shooting down every suggestion he had. Tired of the _doubt._

Thoughts, unbidden, forcing their way in. Ones he shut out quickly, a fierce reminder of where those dark musing had led him last time. He leaned heavily against the other as they shuffled out of the cage, stepping carefully over discarded loot. Busted crates, tattered furnishings. Christ, the damn fools had just about everything down here, didn't they?

“Found another way out,” Arthur said, almost lackadaisically. “It'll take us 'round them, but it ain't gonna be easy.”

“Oh, believe me, I would climb my way outta the depths of Hell to avoid them.”

“Well, I don' know much about Hell, Dutch, but we both are gonna have to do some climbing.”

The announcement leaving him faltering. Only for a moment. Forcing a facade on, trying to be determined. To ignore the growing weakness in his body. On how his limbs refused to rightly work, or the way his body sagged into the other's hold. If Arthur noticed, the man didn't comment. He simply adjusted his grip, held onto him all that more as they reached the end of the cave. The walkway, a series of platforms and ladders rising before them. The climb, monumental. A twinge of defeat creeping inside of him. The task, impossible.

“Ain't as bad as it looks,” Arthur told him, sensing his concern. “Gonna be right with you the whole way. Get you out of here, get you some help.”

“Whatever you say, son,” he breathed tiredly.

“You with me, Dutch?”

He nodded, eyeing the venture before him. Still unsure, but willing to try. For Arthur, if nothing else.

“Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday everyone!
> 
> So Dutch and Arthur are making progress - mentally and physically it seems. Dutch is starting to come around, if only a little, but there, for sure, is a long way to go yet. Still a lot left to this fic. We're looking at over 40 chapters total, so there you go. Lots to come yet. 
> 
> Hope you all have been doing well, have a lovely weekend, and I"ll see you guys on Tuesday! 
> 
> :)


	23. Refuge

“I will not be seen riding that-that _thing_.”

His voice was thin, lined with palpable disgust. Vehement enough that Arthur had to turn an actually look at him to see whether or not Dutch was putting on an act.

He wasn't.

“You fancy walking?” Arthur bit in return, sharper than he intended. Because he sure as hell didn't.

He knew this area, knew that it would take them hours, if not days of steady walking to reach anywhere. And they couldn't afford that kind of time-Dutch couldn't afford that time.

It had been tough; a slow and laborious climb, but they had made it out of there-away from the depths of Hell and out into the open fresh air. The skies above, though gray in nature, were perhaps the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. That moment hadn't lasted long though; the blood easier to see in the daylight, the wound torn open from the tedious climb. Dutch all but collapsing against a tree, his face flushed from the exertion. The knowledge they needed to move fresh in his mind, forcing himself to leave Dutch behind, if only briefly. Skirting through the trees quickly, stumbling across a patch of horses that had been tethered near the entrance of the cave. The Murfrees far too entranced in their latest victim to pay him any heed as he slipped one of them free.

Truth be told, he felt accomplished in finding  _anything_ . Their horses were long gone, nary a sight to be seen, and this was better than nothing. Though it appeared Dutch hadn't shared that sentiment. The man eyeing the steed warily. 

“Look at it-it... _what_ is it?”

“It's a horse, Dutch,” Arthur grumbled, turning away.

He knew the man had a point -the walker had certainly seen better days. Her coat was thin and bald in some spots, with open wounds that slowly oozed from certain places. Ribs showing and prominent, her eyes dull and hair all matted. The poor creature suffering, had suffered for a time under their care. If one could even call it that. But she had been gentle; obedient, hadn't fussed as he slipped her reigns free of the post and led her back. Had managed the climb well enough.

“You can't be serious-”

“You know what, Dutch? I ain't about to stand here and argue with you,” Arthur cut him off, “So either get on, or start walkin'.”

He swung himself up onto her back, giving the man a pointed stare. Challenging him. Waiting to see how much fight was left in him – surely not much. Dutch was already faltering, watching him in disbelief. His face falling into a scowl as he pushed himself to his feet.

“You even think this _thing_ can carry the both of us?”

“Guess we'll find out,” he reached down, helping to haul the man up behind him. The horse shuffling under the added weight. Hesitant hands on his shoulders, falling to his hips as they moved, breaking into a steady gait. Holding tight, but seemingly trying to maintain some sort of distance. The unease between them still hanging heavily in the air.

Not that anyone would blame them. Not that anyone could-not with all that had happened. Arthur still unsure of why he went back. On why he was still trying; guilt perhaps. The echo of gunfire still reverberating in his head. The image of Dutch falling over himself, blood dripping fresh from his side. The same blood still seeping, warm against his back.

His fault. All of this had been his doing.

Maybe not all his fault-some of that burden rested with Dutch. The man's betrayal still heavy in his heart. A sick, ghastly feeling roiling in the pit of his stomach, threatening to make him ill.

He hadn't wanted to believe it.

Part of him still in denial. Not wanting to admit that the man, who had been like a father to him, had so callously left him for dead. Hosea's ramblings falling of deaf ears even the air grew still between them. But the more time he spent brooding, the more it began to make sense, the more answers he found to questions he didn't even know he had. Dutch all but confirming his suspicions, and furthermore casting additional accusations, laying the blame thick upon his shoulders. Thinking that he, of all people, was capable to doing them in, of turning his back on them.

It hurt.

A type of pain he had yet to experience. Worse than anything he had dealt with before; something he was sure would never fade. Looming overhead, dark and sticky like tar, seeping into his pores. A tickle, something he couldn't scratch, whispering within. To turn and leave it all behind. To make his own way and forget his past; to forget _him_. The urge, overwhelming, barely held at bay.

Battling with a giant.

Perhaps the Devil himself. Cruel intentions coming to light, taunting. Desires he chased off with a scowl, turning the steed north, following the road up through the pass. Dutch shifting behind him, as though suddenly aware.

“I'm beginning to think that knock on the head did you in, son,” the man muttered, warily, breath heavy on his neck. “...camp's the other way.”

“We ain't going to camp,” Arthur ground out between clenched teeth.

“Pardon?” Dutch hissed the word like a curse. The closest thing to a threat he could muster at the moment. Arthur only rolled his eyes; it was like a stray pup raising its hackles. It hardly made any impact.

“Not about to get myself shot on the account of your sorry ass.”

“Ain't no one getting shot,” Dutch returned, a pause in his voice, “...well, not any more than what's been done. Trust me-”

“Trust you?” Arthur scoffed, cutting him off abruptly. “Look where trust got us. Twenty goddamned years of it, for _this._ ”

“Arthur-”

“Shit, I mean them idiots already shot me once over a _misunderstanding._ I don’t think they’ll take too kind to me waltzing in covered in blood with you slung over my shoulder.”

“What the hell are you going on about?”

The confusion, clear in the man's voice. It took Arthur a second to pinpoint exactly which part of that the man was questioning, and, for a moment, found himself at a loss for words. Unsure if the man was genuine in his skepticism, or if his condition had led him to believe that. Maybe he’d lost more blood than he could afford- after all, he would’ve known they went after him. Had to have known...

But Dutch seemed genuine and sober, almost a little irritated that Arthur was seemingly speaking nonsense.

“You— After the O'Driscolls,” he paused for a beat, as if expecting that alone to jog Dutch’s memory. When it didn’t, he continued, “Bill and Javier, Micah- they cornered me in Van Horn. Put a bullet through my damn leg; said you was the one who sent them all.”

“I did no such thing,” the protest weak. Feeble almost. The anger that should have been there faltering due to his deteriorating state. “I- told them to follow Colm's boys out, you-”

“Well, you all figured I _was_ one of Colm’s boys, didn’t you?”Arthur pointed out bitterly.

“I-I was...that was wrong of me, to assume,” perhaps the closest thing to an apology he would get from the other. In all the years he had known Dutch, it was a rare occurrence for the man to apologize. To admit the errors of his ways. There was always a reason, always something else that was at fault. The confession here, lacking depth and yet heavy all the same. A heaviness on Arthur's tongue as he tried to swallow.

“Damn right it was,” he finally settled on saying. Words all but lost to him. New emotions creeping in, muddling with all that was already there. Far too many to keep in check, and he felt himself on the verge of losing his composure. He took a breath, shoved it all down.

“It won't happen-I won't let them try anything, I-I didn't know they had-”

Arthur almost felt bad for denying him— if it were him, he’d want to go home, too. He shook that thought from his head.

“Shady Belle is too far, Dutch,” Arthur cut him off. Gentler now, perhaps a trace of sympathy in his voice, “Even if you didn't bleed out 'fore we got down there, it's not like you'd be in any position to say different, and I ain't up to facing folk right now.”

“It ain't that bad,” the damn fool replied, as though he weren't soaked in his own blood.

“Sure,” he rolled his eyes, “Dutch-this ain't a discussion. Like it or not, you need help, _now_.”

“What? You planning on taking me into town? You have lost your mind if you think-”

“I may not be as smart as you, Dutch, and heaven knows that you like to remind me of it more often than not, but I ain't that stupid. Just...trust me, alright? I got a place-we just need to get there. Save your bellyaching for something worth complaining.”

Annesburg was close; but taking Dutch there was not an option, he knew. The man's face too well known, his bounty plastered on buildings throughout the settlement. Years ago, back before Blackwater, before all the shit they had gotten into, it might have worked. They might have avoided detection.

Not now. Not anymore.

Things had changed.

Too much had changed; a longing in his heart, holes he could no longer fill. Seams that were torn and too frayed to repair. That heavy lump back in his throat, threatening to choke him. Heavy like the form behind him, a little more weight pressing into him with each passing minute. Dutch clearly faltering, but refusing to say so.

And Arthur hoping that they would make it in time.

* * *

“I sent you out for a gun,” Hamish greeted him as he rode up,face screwed up in confusion, voice tinged with mock sternness, “And instead you bring back a sad looking horse and a sadder lookin’ fella. Couple’a strays, I take it?”

“'S a long story,” Arthur answered sheepishly as he dismounted. Realizing just then that he didn't even have the gun Hamish sent him for. That was stowed away with Dakota, for safekeeping. Gone now along with his horse. He tried to explain it, words faltering as Hamish waved him off as though it was no concern. More focused on what was happening. Dutch was still awake, if only just. The man blinking owlishly as he took in O'Creagh's run. His face pale, eyes sunken in, a wistful gaze as he glanced around. Starting when Arthur laid a hand on his thigh, as though he suddenly remembered he hadn't been alone.

“Bet it's a good one,” Hamish hummed. He had come closer, eyes roaming over the steed's flank, the creature looking even more pitiful now that it was surrounded by this lush beauty. Arthur helped Dutch down, one arm hooked around the man's waist to keep him from falling.

“Guess that depends on how it ends,” Arthur chuckled dryly, but it was a sad, desperate sound. “We can reminisce later. My...my friend here, he needs some lookin' after. Can we-he-I mean-”

“Sure,” the man waved him along, perplexed but still inviting. “Get him in bed; I'll see what I can get you.”

Arthur muttered his thanks, drawing the other inside. The cabin warm, the fire crackling in the pit, chasing away the chill. Dutch letting out a weary groan as he was settled on the bed. His breaths heavy, voice breaking through the gasps.

“You think-can we trust him?”

“I keep good company,” Arthur replied without thought, almost bitter that Dutch would suggest such a thing. He cast the man a pointed glare, “Trust him more than you.”

He wasn't able to stop the jibe from coming. Dutch shooting him an irate glare for those words, but it was a glare he hardly paid attention to, working instead to pull the man's boots off. Looking up as Hamish joined them.

“Figure you can handle this?” he held out a handful of supplies, motioning to one side. “Got some water you can use as well, and you're welcome to whatever clothes you need. Seems like your friend here has seen better days.”

“That he has...I...thank you,” Arthur barely able to manage the words, the genuine concern touching. Maybe more heartfelt if the situation hadn't been so bitter. If it wasn't such a replica of what he went through with Hosea. All for different reasons. The memory burning fierce in his mind. Memories he banished, shoved aside with all the force he could muster. Something he couldn't allow himself to dwell on; not at the moment.

Dutch first.

The man resting uneasily, hand still clasped to his side. The fabric long saturated, congealed blood coating his fingers as Arthur pulled free the wrappings, dumping them to one side. Working the clasps on his vest next, set to remove the offending fabric. Hamish shuffling behind him, the man clearing his throat.

“If you need me, I'll be out yonder. See if I can get that...nag of yours looking a bit more like a horse and less like roadkill.”

He nodded, knowing the man was giving them a bit of privacy. He always seemed to have a keen sense for these things. Arthur was thankful for his attempt, for the discretion. The man had every right to question him for showing up in such a state, dragging a complete stranger along with him. Hamish hadn't even prodded, had simply acted as though this was normal. Or perhaps he truly was that lonely he was willing to accept any company; questionable or not. Whatever the case, he was thankful for it.

He drew in a breath, frowning at the mess before him. The oozing had slowed, the wound almost clotted. Ringed by dark and ugly bruising, standing out sharply against his pale skin. Dutch's chest hitching as he drew in a ragged breath, grimacing at the gentle handling.

“Ain't nothing more than a nick,” Arthur reassured him gently, cleaning the area. “Been through worse; course you was a lot younger then.”

“You calling me old?”

“You're going gray, Dutch,” a laugh, restrained as it was, escaping him at the glance he received. The man running a worried hand through his locks.

“Excuse you-I most certainly am not,” the protest came.

“I can see it turning now,” he went on, his resentment forgotten for but a moment. “Fading, bit by bit. Look here-gray hair. Here too. Gray, gray-damn. You keep this up, and the law'll never recognize you.”

“You have perhaps the strangest sense of humor I have ever known,” the man frowned up at him.

“Wonder where I got it from.”

“Ain't come from me,” Dutch bit, hissing as Arthur worked to patch the wound. “People actually _laugh_ at my jokes.”

“Ah yes-your jokes,” he shook his head, that bitterness returning. “I take a particular liking to the one where you left me with Colm. Now _that_ one was pretty good.”

“I said I was sorry, Arthur," he let out a low mournful groan, "what more do you want to hear?”

He stilled at those words, his hands ceasing their motions. Turned after a moment, forcing himself to look at the other. “Sorry ain't gonna cut it, Dutch.”

“What, then?”

“I don't-”

“You can't tell me that this is it? You are turning your back on me, on your family, because of one, honest mistake?”

“An honest mistake?” he was indignant now. Fury set to burst free from his chest. “Is that how you see it?”

“I am not perfect, son, and neither or you,” Dutch reminded him. “We have all made mistakes. We are more alike than what you think.”

“Hell we are-this weren't a mistake, Dutch-you done made a choice. Deliberately. You don't get to say sorry for that, and expect it to all go away.”

“There must still be a chance,” he continued to press. “Why else are you here?”

“Hell if I know,” he spat out, tossing the rag down, all but finished. “I shouda just left you there, you damn fool. Done exactly what you did to me; deserved no less than that.”

“You say that, but you don't mean it,” Dutch told him after a moment.

“Don't I? Way you tell it, you ain't have the slightest clue to what's been going on.”

“You always did play the idiot well,” he snarled.

“Least one of us was playing,” Arthur responded just as grudgingly.

“Arthur-”

“You need to rest, Dutch.”

He was done, done with this conversation. Done with the ridicule, the accusations. The far fetched theories that didn't make sense. False hopes being clung to in desperation. He went to move, to leave it all behind, stopped by the hand that grasped his wrist.

“You remember Missoula? The stage we took there?”

The question so sudden and out of context it made him pause. Forced him to sit back on the bed near him. His lips pursed, the past dredged up from long ago.

“Course I remember.”

How could he not? He had been seventeen that year, the three of them back out in Montana. Dutch and Hosea had picked up whispers of an unguarded stage, ripe for the plucking. They had sent him out, content to let him play the fool, to act as though he was waylaid traveler who had been thrown from his horse. An act he had all but protested against, caving in when, and only when, Dutch had pleaded for his trust.

That everything would work out fine.

Though it had been anything but. Nothing more than a damn trap, and Arthur had gotten caught in the crossfire. Arrested, hauled in to town, set to hang. Nearly had hanged, had been brought up to the gallows, the town uncaring he was only just a kid. Saved at the last moment, a stunning feat by both Hosea and Dutch. They were more cautious after that. More wary of what they did.

“You were angry then,” Dutch pointed out, his voice soft. “Wouldn't talk to us for a week. Were sweet as pie with Bessie, and Susan. But us? You refused to even look our way unless it was to give us a death glare. Hosea even went out and got you that dog, Copper-you remember?”

A peace offering, Hosea had said. Arthur tempted, but unwilling to accept it. Until the older man had left. A few more days had passed, and the anger, fierce as it had been, had puttered out and died. Things had seemingly gone back to normal the next day. As though there had never been a grudge in the first place. He let out a heavy sigh.

“This ain't like that,” he pointed out. “We was all fools back then; but this-you left me, Dutch. You have any idea the shit I went through? And after all that, I come to find that out? You know how that made me feel? What I still feel?”

“I know, I....I am so sorry-”

“And you lied. Lied to everyone. To Hosea, and he...he trusted you,” his voice faltering.

“I didn't think-”

“No, you didn't. You don't ever think how things might affect other folk,” Arthur cut him, his voice drawn. Fighting back the tears that were there. A sudden, heavy weight settling in his chest.

“You are not being fair; had I known, I would done anything, _anything_ to protect him,” there was sudden spit in his tone, an edge of anger. It only fed the remorse he felt.

“You said the same about me once,” Arthur mused, “and well-we know how that turned out.”

“I-Arthur, I was a fool,” Dutch whimpered, “I never...I didn't-you were always like a son to me, please I-we'll get through this. Just please.”

He sat silent for a moment, those words burning in his lungs, sitting in his bones, heavy in his blood. He had heard them time and time again, and each utterance had once bolstered him, warming in his stomach, reminding him what all this suffering was for.

But not anymore. This time there was only indifference. Something cold and hard. Gritty.

“You know, my pa-my real pa, he was a bastard,” he swallowed thick, suddenly unable to look Dutch in the eye. “Beat my momma somethin' fierce, and soon as he did her in he did the same to me. He was a drunken cheat-a vile man who ain't known nothin' but how to think of himself. Y'know he sold me out too? Reckon' I was eight-maybe nine. He got himself into trouble, brought the law back to our place. Threatened to beat me if I didn't take claim to it.

So I did- 'n the law took me in. Guess they took pity on me cause they done let me go that same night. Said to stay outta trouble and I'd be fine. Figured that's why my pa made me do all that, cause the law wouldn't do nuthin' to a kid. Ran back home and well, he were drunk. Was none too happy to see me either, and he was quick to let me know. Busted my nose that night-said I was supposed to take the heat off him. That if I were of any use, I'd stay put there. Make his life easy, he said.”

“I-I knew your pa was something else,” Dutch started, “I had no idea, son-”

“Didn't really think it could be any different. Then I met you folks and I saw different. You… you was always like a father to me-how a father should be,” he said quietly.

“Arthur—“ his voice suddenly full of hope. Small, but fluttering. Bright.

It soured Arthur’s stomach all the more.

“Never felt right saying that before. It never…” he swallowed once more, felt as though he was on the verge of breaking. Maybe he was. “At least he ain't ever lied 'bout how he felt. Can't say the same for you-cause from where I'm sitting? You is worse than him.”

The man, speechless for once. Absorbing those words, shock written stark on his face. Maybe it was unfair of him to say such things, but once started, he hadn't been able to stop. The silence stretching between them once more, dark and uncomfortable. Dutch's mouth, opening and closing, trying to form words. Arthur stood with a sigh, unable to stand the unease any longer.

“Get some rest. You need anything, Hamish will be around, I'm reckon.”

“Wait-Arthur, please. Where-where are you going?”

He paused in the doorway, stood fast for a moment. The words almost falling from his lips in habit. His gaze, hardening as he turned back to look at the desperate man, new words chosen carefully.

Pointedly.

“Ain't sure that's any of your business anymore, Dutch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes
> 
> So they've made it, Arthur has gotten him somewhere safe, which-if we're being honest is far more than he deserves, am I right? 
> 
> Though kudos to Hamish for being...well, Hamish. Not even asking Arthur what the hell he's doing or where he's been, just taking him in. Offering to help this complete stranger. That's quite a lot to do, given he's only known Arthur for a couple of weeks, if that, right?
> 
> I do know there's been quite a few questions regarding the gang and the fate of the others, and I PROMISE that I haven't forgotten them, we are getting there - we're only about halfway through the story, so hang tight. We will get back to the others and find out whats going on soon enough :)
> 
> Have a lovely week all! I'll catch you on the flipside of Friday :)


	24. Choices

He found Hamish with the nag, the man having made some progress in restoring her to something that was vaguely horse-like. Her coat had been brushed out, the wounds tended, and the tangles had been worked from her mane and tail. Looking almost like a new horse; if her ribs weren't sunken in, embodying her skeletal frame.

“Almost afraid of asking where you found her-though I'm thinking I ought to pay them a visit. Give them a piece of my mind,” Hamish huffed as he drew up alongside him.

“'Round Beaver Hollow,” the response was muttered, earning an alarmed glance.

“Well, shit...guess that explains it,” he answered, hesitantly. A bit of pause before continuing “You uh-you know that's Murfree territory, don't ya?”

“Oh trust me,” Arthur rolled his eyes, stroking the horse's neck, “I am _well_ aware of that fact.”

“I won't ask,” Hamish shook his head. “That fella you with-he gonna be okay?”

“He'll be fine,” he had to bite his tongue to keep the rest of that thought following. “Reckon that he'll need a few days before he'll be back on his feet. You uh-you sure he's okay to stay here?”

“As long as he's not causing problems,” the man seemed indifferent. “Like I said; gets lonely up here. Having a few new faces around can't hurt.”

“He won't be no trouble; and if he is you just lemme know, and I'll set him straight when I get back.”

“Back?” Hamish raised an eyebrow at him. “You uh, you planning on going somewhere?”

“Got some things to take care of,” Arthur answered with a shrug, doing his best to seem indifferent. “See if I can find my horse for one-as well as your gun. Provided no one has helped themselves to it already.”

“She was a beauty,” Hamish mourned quietly.

“Don't consider it a loss yet, old man,” Arthur quipped, a corner of his mouth turning up into a smile at the reaction he got from that comment. “I'll get it back for ya.”

“How the hell you get so sidetracked anyhow?” he turned the conversation. “Didn't think sending you out on one little errand would warrant in all this...and Beaver Hollow is a hell of a way from Annesburg.”

“Just-ran into some folk when I was in town. Kinda lost track of what I was doing,” Arthur did his best to skirt around the answer. Hamish deserved more than that, deserved to know the truth, but he was having a rather difficult time forcing the words out.

“Same folk as before?” Hamish wondered, a dark glower in his eyes, “your family?”

“Sorta-not really. Still family but-” he found himself faltering, clamming up. His actions not gone unnoticed by Hamish.

“You ain't gotta share if you don' wanna, kid,” he reassured him. “Just worried for you, is all.”

“I appreciate the concern,” he managed to get out after a moment. “It'll be fine; but I really oughta be heading off. I-I'll be back, in a few days.”

He'd stay away long enough for Dutch to leave; that was the general plan at least. Arthur had done his part, getting him here, patching him up. As far as he was concerned, his sins were all but absolved. The Devil would no doubt find other faults with him, but as far as he and Dutch were concerned? Their issues were squared away.

He started when fingers cupped his chin, so lost in thought he hadn't even seen the other move. Hamish held him firm, but tenderly, tilting his head to one side. “Really-spend all that time patching _him_ up, but you don't spare a second for yourself.”

He almost forgot about the gash on his head.

“Aw, this little pinprick? Hardly even feel it,” Arthur tried to brush him off, cursing as the man prodded it.

“Oh, I'm sure,” Hamish grinned at him, clearly seeing through his deceit. “It won't take but a few minutes; come on then.”

Grudgingly he complied. He felt as though the sooner he left, the better he'd be, half expecting Dutch to come crawling out, determined to finish what had been started. But as time passed, he relaxed, leaning into Hamish's touch as the man carefully worked over the wound. The two of them had sat outside, watching the day drift by in amicable silence. Near an hour had passed by the time he was finished, the man seemingly content with his work. His head aching now, but the worst of it over.

Hamish had seen to it that Arthur was properly sewn back together, and washed up, harping on him with all the stubbornness of a broody mother hen. He forced some of his spare clothing on him, too. Arthur was silently grateful, seeing as he'd sacrificed most of what he had in keeping Dutch alive. The thin shirt he had left would do nothing for the chill of the night, especially once on the road.

“You might want to stay the night,” Hamish offered, putting his kit away, “Make sure your brain don’t leak out while you sleep.”

Arthur considered his offer only briefly. The house was rather small; with Dutch taking up the bed, that left Hamish the couch; outlaw though he may be, Arthur had enough manners forced into him by Grimshaw’s wooden spoon to know that he should insist on taking the floor and allowing their gracious host the more comfortable arrangements. But damn it, the idea of spending another night on the floor was torturous.

Hell, the idea of sleeping in the same house as Dutch was torturous.

Not that he had planned on sleeping much. Not after these past few days he had just suffered. The memories still raw and weeping in his brain.

Instead, he dismissively raised a hand, “Thank you, but I really should be headed out. I appreciate what you've all done, but-”

“I know; you got all those things to take care of,” Hamish finished for him. “Say-why don't you take Buell?”

He started, turning to look at the other man. “You gone lost your mind?”

“You take that old thing and you'll be walking before long. She ain't fit to ride; ain't really fit to stand, even. Buell is a good horse, he'll take care of ya. And he needs to be worked anyhow. It'll do him some good.”

“I thought you said Buell was a bastard,” Arthur mused, remember that conversation. The other laughed.

“Oh, that he is; a right fine one too. Don't mean he ain't decent.”

He didn't respond to that. Wasn't sure how. He knew that Hamish was talking about a horse, but it sure felt like he was talking about something else. Offered up a smile instead, forced himself to thank the man once more as he set about tacking up Buell.

It was evening before he left. Light fading into dark, marking the passing of yet another day. Arthur couldn't remember the last time he had slept. His days melding together, time non-existent as he sped through the hills. Now that he was alone, his emotions were running rampant through him, far too heavy for him to bear. 

A burden he never truly wanted.

The roads were quiet as he cantered along, his voice feeble as he spoke, Buell hardly reacting to the monologue he was spouting. Not that he expected it; he was doing nothing more than attempting to sort his thoughts, tangled as they were. And he didn't like the silence. Didn't like the feel of being alone.

Not anymore.

The stress of it all ate at him, and he felt positively worse by the time he reached town. A weight in his stomach that made him feel as though he'd swallowed stones. His throat just as tight, tender and sore as he tried to swallow. Buell slowing down to a trot as they came into the small, bustling place. A frown gracing his features as he saw the lights flickering in the dark.

Annesburg was still just as foul and unwelcoming at night as it was during the day. Perhaps even more so- it felt far colder, smelt far more noxious, and seemed far more unwelcoming than the last time he had been here. Or perhaps it was just his mind, playing tricks on him. Memories of recent, too dark and dismal clouding his judgment, stealing his breath and twisting his innards till they felt as though they'd come out.

He drew in a breath, trying to gain hold of his nerves. Edging Buell ever closer, suddenly hyper aware of the streets. His heart pounding something fierce as he reigned Buell in, ignoring the protest from the steed. They slowed to almost a stop, eyes scanning the whole of the town. Remembering all to well what had been here the last time he had come through. Feeling as though he was being watched. Waiting for him to be lulled into a false sense of security before they pounced.

But the place was quiet. The few guards he did happen to see were fighting the temptation to doze off. Guns slung over their backs, heads nodding. Arms wrapped tight about their frame to stave off the cold that was setting in.

There was nothing else. No signs of Pinkertons.

He let out a breath, suddenly remembering how to breathe. It was a relief; a blessing-a small sliver of good fortune, perhaps the best he could have hoped for. Even so, he took precautions, driving Buell down the road to the post, hitching him to the pole there. Arthur paused long enough to feed him a peppermint, praising him for all his efforts, and gave him a feeble reassurance that he'd be back before long.

Then, with his hat pulled low over his eyes, he crossed the street. His feet sounding heavy as he worked his way up the wooden stairs, drawing him ever closer. He knew the path by heart, each step fully ingrained in his mind. As well as other things...his legs suddenly felt sluggish, his frame trembling as he came to a stop. Hands laden with sweat as he clenched them tight. His mind was racing.

Reasoning.

Thinking that maybe it would be best to wait til sunrise. Come back at a decent hour. Surely they were asleep. He wouldn't want to impose.

Each thought racing through his head, fleeing as soon as it had come in. Replaced by something new. Something worse. And try as he might, he couldn't chase it away. Stuck, floundering, wondering what to do. If he should do anything. Time ticking by slowly. Or racing by all too fast, he wasn't sure.

But somehow, he found himself stood fast, staring at the door. Shifting he raised a hand, before dropping to his side. The urge to turn, to leave, blossoming inside him. Foul and potent, a whisper of 'coward' echoing in his mind.

He'd happily be called a coward if it could all just go away. It would be easier, he reckoned, not knowing. Turn from here, take off, disappear. It was something he could do with ease; let his mind fill in the gaps with the most favorable of thoughts. Piece together an ending he'd much rather have.

But he'd never forgive himself, he knew. That guilt would grow and fester and consume him no matter how far he fled. There was nothing too it.

He raised his fist before he could change his mind, his knuckles rapping against the wood. Breath held fast in his chest, his throat tight as he waited. A faint, shuffling sound heard from within, banishing his earlier fears of them being fast asleep. The door was cracked open, light from within blocked by a small face. Blinking uncertainly in the dark, but then her eyes lit up at seeing him. The door was drawn open wide, her warm hands inviting him inside.

The dankness of the air outside was chased away, a warm, homely feel greeting him. Gertud, the wife-as he had learned-was pressing a cup into his hand before he could even turn her away. Arthur forcing a smile, muttering a quiet thanks as he nursed the coffee. Desperate for anything to chase away the fatigue that was slowly creeping up on him. Andreas, her husband, was up as well, his voice a flurry of words he still couldn't understand, giving him a pat on the shoulder. Before gesturing towards the other room. Arthur following his gaze, but unable to see.

Perhaps unwilling to see. He hadn't spoken of him much. Had steadfastly refused to breathe a word of it to Dutch. Knowing and hating the fact the man would play it off, would pretend that it wasn't as bad as it were. Arthur, thinking perhaps that it might all go away if he just turned a blind eye to it.

He sucked in a breath. “How is he?”

The words barely came out. Words he doubted they understood, but the meaning surely clear.

Hosea hadn't been fairing well when he last left; had all but slipped into a deep slumber, unable to be brought to no matter how hard he tried to rouse him. Arthur had stayed, had hid himself within that household for days before pulling himself free from the man's bedside. His emotions driving him to foolish decisions. Decisions that still weighed him down, the memory still dark and haunting.

He saw the look on their faces, though he couldn't quite read them. Unsure of what to make of it all. Apprehensively, Andreas nudged him that way. Arthur found himself unable to move, terrified.

He had been afraid to come back this way, scared of what he might return to.

Afraid there might not be _anything_ to return to.

He swallowed it down, pushing himself forward. Stepping into the small room, darkness embracing him. Eyes sweeping over the bed, to the prone form there, heart heavy in his chest. Seemed as though things hadn't changed much. Perhaps that was a good thing-he wasn't sure.

There were a few scant candles lit, casting odd shadows against the wall as Arthur drew near. There was a stool pressed against the wall, but Arthur ignored it in favor of sitting on the bed. Hosea's bandages had been changed just recently, still crisp and unblemished. What little was left uncovered, he could see that the bruises were fading. A sure sign of healing. Yet the man was still unmoving. Just as he were when Arthur had left him.

Though his fever seemed to be down. An observation made as Arthur clasped the man's hand within his. The gentle rise and fall of his chest the only indication he was still in the land of the living. Arthur gave him a gentle squeeze, watching...waiting...hoping. Only to face disappointment. Tears on the brink of falling. He turned away, clearing his throat, trying to find his voice.

“Came back to see ya...make sure you hadn't given up on me yet, you old fool. Had to get out for a while, try an' clear my head. Went out for a ride and I-” he swallowed, memory racing through him. Stealing his breath. Remembering the promise he had made, and how spectacularly he had failed.

“I ain't-I ain't been very good Hosea.”

His voice breaking at the last bit. A free hand pressed against his face, trying to steel away the rampant emotions. To force away the tears that were breaking free. A subtle heave in his chest as he bit back a sob. He drew in a breath, biting his lip, doing whatever he could to try and get a hold of himself.

“Worse is, I know you taught me better than that,” he whispered after a moment. Once he had calmed. “Know I ain't always done the right thing; hell before you found me, I weren't nothin' more than a snot-nosed thief, hurtin' folk just cause I could. Think I got better-still lied 'n cheated when I had to. Killed when I ain't had any other choice. Figured I'd do anythin' to keep folk safe. Protect you 'n Dutch. Least what I thought-cause now I gone and hurt him. Didn' even think that one through-just was angry, is all. Wanted to hurt him like he done hurt me. Maybe he deserved it-doing what he did, but I guess that don't matter, not anymore.”

He drew in a breath. Chewed on his bottom lip, finding a bit of wall to stare at. Sorting his thoughts. “I don't-I ain't-”

Words still stolen from him. He turned back, watching the man. Unsurprised by the lack of response. Just as still as he was when Arthur first came in. He let out a sigh, pushing his hat off from his head, rubbing at weary eyes, his voice impossibly small when he spoke next.

“I don't know how to handle this, Hosea-I...I could really do with some of your wisdom right 'bout now. Know I ain't always listened before, but I sure am willing now. Do me a big favor, 'n come back to me, you old fool.”

His pleas falling on deaf ears. Lost in the silence of the night. He wasn't quite sure what he was expecting; Hosea hadn't come to before, why would he now? It all felt as though he was waiting; for what, he wasn't sure.

And he wasn't sure if he could handle it when it came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awwww, yes. Some of you called it. 
> 
> Hosea hasn't kicked the bucket, at least not yet. 
> 
> :)
> 
> Surprised? Not surprised? Drop in a comment and let me know! :)
> 
> I'll see all you folks on Tuesday!


	25. Understanding

He was getting old. Felt it in his bones; the way his chest rattled, his lungs wheezing. The worst of it in the cold air, back when they were up in Colter. One night, in particular, had been bad. Enough for Abigail to worry, the woman bringing him a cup of tea she managed to scrounge up and brew over a pitiful fire.

He had thanked her, waved off her concerns, attributing it all to age. Knew in the back of his mind he was no youngin' anymore. All that even more apparent here. The ache settling deep in his bones. Spent more time sleeping than anything else, the times he was coherent were few and far between. Most of which were fragmented with memories. Wasn't sure which were real and which were fabricated.

One thing he _did_ know for sure was that Arthur had gone. The first few times he'd come to, he was convinced that he had imagined the man to begin with. Holed up in the bed he was, unable to get to his feet, the snatches of consciousness he grasped for were fleeting at best. But the pain was real; burdensome. Sleep was far more enticing.

So he slept. Waken a few times by the strange family that saw after him. And in all his travels, and all the things he had learned, German was not one of them. The words, foreign and unfamiliar. Confusing his already addled mind. He remembered asking after Arthur, in those times he was coherent enough to do so.

The first time he had asked, they had brought him water. The second time, it had been some food. When he had asked a third time, they merely stood to one side, shrugging their shoulders in uncertainty. He had stopped asking after that. Simply assumed he would never know.

Which was why when he woke next, blinking bleary in the growing light, he was surprised to see him there. And that wasn't the only thing that surprised him.

It had been a long while since it was like this – since Arthur had slept pressed up tight against him.

Not since Isaac and Eliza.

He had taken to stubbornly pretending as though nothing were wrong. Arthur drifting through the camp aimlessly, taking odd jobs and throwing himself headfirst into chores in an effort to appear busy. To keep himself distracted during those long, horrible days.

But as night fell, and Arthur's mask with it, he'd wordlessly slip into his tent, weighed upon by the touch of ghosts. He'd fall asleep within seconds, their backs pressed together. And by morning, Arthur would be gone before he woke, as though he'd never been there to begin with; the only proof of his presence was the warmth he left behind.

They never breathed a word of it; a secret lingering between them forever of those bittersweet few weeks in which Arthur had dared to show some measure of weakness. A habit broken before too long, never to be revisited.

Almost.

Because every so often he'd wake in the dead of night to the warmth pressed against his back. Unknowing of when he had slipped in, and unwilling to ask why. Just knowing that Arthur was seeking some measure of comfort, just as he was now...the man halfway off the small bed, curled up around him, his head resting on the pillow just above his. A soft, guttural snore filling the air between him. It was an odd angle, turning his head in order to see him proper. Noting the way his cheeks were even more drawn in, if that were at all possible. Bruising, though subtle, marked his face, a cut that had been cleaned and tended to. Marks that weren't there before. And the stubble that was blooming on his cheeks and chin alluded to the fact he hadn't shaved in days.

What in the world had his boy gotten up to while he was unaware?

Wonder laced through his mind, wanting nothing more than to wake him. To stir Arthur, and soothe the thundering thoughts that pounded through his head. Hosea wouldn’t, though. Couldn’t. Those questions could wait; he could wait. For now, for this moment, he simply let himself sink against the other, grounding himself in that quiet moment. The warmth pressed against him. The dip of the bed. The rhythmic, deep breaths. Comforting. Grounding.

If he didn’t know any better, he might’ve thought this was merely a tender dream. That he'd wake, and find him gone, to find that this was nothing more than wanton desires conjuring these vision. His eyes, drifting back up, tracing his form, reassuring himself that that was not the case. Watching as those eyes blinked open slowly, blurred and cloudy as he met his gaze.

“Was wondering when you'd get up,” Hosea greeted him, words thin and rough. Arthur blinked at him owlishly, frozen in the moment. Moving in the next.

“Hosea? You're awake...”

“Course I'm awake-your snoring is set to wake the whole county. Why, I thought it was a train gone by, with all the ruckus you were making.”

His humor, lost. Fallen on deaf ears as Arthur pushed himself up. His voice groggy still, clambering out from the depths of fatigue. One hand rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he sat, voice thin and raspy. Clearly caught unaware, and doing his best to pretend as though he hadn't been. The confusion in his face falling into one of concern as he situated himself, sitting across from him now. 

“I thought..thought you was...”

“You aren't the only stubborn bastard,” Hosea cut him off, knowing what was on his mind. Their last parting words had not been encouraging. He still wasn't sure what he had actually said, or what part he had simply dreamed. What he knew now was that Arthur was here. Rough, worn, despondent. But here all the same. There was little more he could ask for.

“You lookin' a little less like death,” Arthur said, trying to be encouraging.

“Take your word for it.” He hadn't been up, not since being brought here. Hadn't seen himself in a mirror, but he gathered he looked a sight. He could see out of both eyes now, a sure indication the swelling had gone down, and while there was still pain it was dull, as opposed to the fierce throb it was earlier. It was easier to breathe, provided his lungs didn't get all in a twist.

“Folk here, they treating you good?”

He nodded; glancing over towards the door. Seeing their forms just beyond, meandering through the small house. “You keep interesting company, my boy.”

To that, Arthur hummed. Tired as he was, Hosea could easily see something wasn't right. That his worry wasn't just for him.

The same expression on his face he held all those years ago, during his youth, when times were troubling. And times were no doubt troubling, given all that had happened. Hosea deciding to poke and prod. To find out what was wrong. Damning all decorum and simply asking.

“What's on your mind, my boy?”

He didn't answer. Not at first; gaze torn away, his head down, eyes focused on his lap. Hosea prompting him once more, the words finally coming forth.

“I shot Dutch.”

Said softly. Stoically. Without remorse, without elation. Just words, simple and precise. Unfeeling. For Hosea, it was all too different. He mind whirled at the confession. Conflicted, knowing full well he had held the same desires. Desires he had hardly restrained. Vague memories of admission, of wanting to follow through. Seemed as though Arthur had shared that idea. His voice hesitant as he wondered. Needing to know.

“You...what? Is he...is-”

“I ain't killed him,” Arthur answered softly, “if that's what you're wondering. Maybe I should have-I-I don't know.”

He felt torn between his emotions. Each one more fleeting than the last. Anxious, scared, worried-too caught up in what had already taken place, this new revelation opening yet another wound on top of those not even yet healed. He wasn't even rightly sure why he was feeling so troubled; the bastard rightly deserved it. Even so, he still cared about him. For some goddamned reason he was still fond of the man, no matter how he tried to deny it.

Had Arthur gone that far south? That would certainly explain his absence if he had. It would also explain his newly acquired wounds. Traversing clear to Shady Belle, not doubt facing resistance from the others. He knew that the gang had already been apprehensive of him. They hadn't acted amicably to his earlier return. If Arthur had shown up, if he had extracted revenge on Dutch right there in the midst of camp...they would never have let him leave unchallenged. None of it made sense, and Hosea knew that there were still parts of the story that were still missing.

“How...”

“We done crossed paths in the Bayou there and he-we said some words,” Arthur explained dryly. “Weren't nothing pretty and I...let my anger get the best of me. Didn't even realize what I had done till it was too late. He uh...he should be alright, I think. Despite my better judgment, couldn't just leave him there. I'm such a goddamned fool, Hosea...I ain't done much right lately; hell, I can't even do the _wrong_ things right neither.”

A twinge of pity flooded him at the remorse in his voice. It had been years since Hosea had seen him look so sullen. Weighed upon by burdens unseen to the eye. So heavily coated in self-loathing it rolled off him in waves, almost as though it were palpable.

“That don't make you a fool, Arthur,” Hosea told him gently. “Makes you a decent person.”

“Sure don't feel like it,” he mumbled, still unwilling to look him in the eye. “I trusted him, Hosea. I...I done gave him everything and he-”

“I know,” he wouldn't let him finish that thought. Because he knew. Knew too well how much the other had given up. How crestfallen he was whenever it wasn't enough. Hosea had been there to pick up the pieces each and every time it had happened. Dutch might have turned a blind eye to it, oblivious to his hidden hurts. But Hosea was not so easily fooled.

Dutch had always demanded his trust. His loyalty. Intangible things; and Arthur always gave without question. Gave far more than the man could ever hope to receive. It was as though Dutch had asked him for the sun, and as always, Arthur had gone and given him all the damn stars in the sky. Unquestioning. Eager. Only for that facade to be shattered by choices that could not be undone.

It wasn't always like that.

Time might have muddled his memories, perhaps changing them from how he remembered. But faint whispers danced in his head, urging him to believe. To not let go of that fragile thread. Of times, long ago, to when it was just them. The three of them finding their own way in the world. Remembering Dutch in how he used to be, before all this madness had taken place.

“Listen to me, now. Let an old fool impart some wisdom in hopes that it might stick,” he tried to sit up, wincing as Arthur moved to help him. He rested back into the cushions behind him, eyes tracing the man's face. He let out a breath, sorting his thoughts as best he could.

“A person ain't defined by just one action, Arthur. People...well, people are complicated. Dutch ain't all bad, even though he's done bad things. Just like you-just like me. We've done some bad things; at times, we've been nothing but killers. We've lied, cheated, swindled and stole-but there's more to us than just that. Or so I'd like to think.”

There was an odd laugh from him. Almost a scoff, watching as Arthur shook his head. His voice soft; sullen.

“You and Dutch...well, you're the best people I've known. Or knew-you still, at least. Dutch I ain't so sure about anymore. God knows I love him, I ain't rightly sure why, but I do. And he...you think. You think there's still hope for him?”

That, he didn't know.

It would be easy to lie.

False words were a second nature to him, after all. How easy it would be to give in and simply say yes. To ignore what had happened and turn a blind eye to it all. Hosea knew that they had done similar things towards ill deeds in the past. Pretending none of it had taken place. But this was different; the betrayal ran deeper. Trust was a fragile thing, something built up over years, but so easily shattered.

And once it was broken, there was sometimes no fixing it, he knew. Yet the hope was there, deep-seated in his voice. Something faint, but unwilling to surrender. Hosea let out a hum, answering him.

“Suppose there's always a chance; ain't gonna be easy if there is.”

“I don't-ain't sure how to feel about it,” Arthur admitted. “Should be angry with him. I am-was...You know I wanted to do that? Wanted to shoot him, I mean. Weren't no accident that I did, but then, after, when I realized what I done, I-I was afraid. Scared I was gonna lose him, you know? And here I thought I had already lost you and I didn't...I couldn't-both of you are like family to me, felt like I was losing everything I had. Then he goes on and says he's sorry for it all, but..I mean...I-I've gone and gotten myself all spun up and confused, I ain't sure I can forgive him, or if I even want to. Hell I...I ain't even sure what to _think_ anymore.”

The words all jumbled, coming out in one tumble. Syllables falling over one another, his words all run together, hardly a breath between them. Arthur watching him. Waiting. Hoping. Hosea shook his head, a small piece of pity filling him.

“I can't tell you that, my boy,” he told him gently. “What you think, how you feel...that's up to you. Ain't no one that can tell you otherwise.”

Arthur said nothing in response, seemingly lost within himself. Battling demons that were unseen. A turmoil roiling within him. Everything had happened far too fast to keep up with, and Arthur seemed to have aged a thousand years in just a few short weeks. Bearing the weight of the world, and then some. Hosea wanted nothing more just then to scoop him up, take him away, away from all the hurt. Had he more strength he just might have done. He was fervently wishing he had done just that, before all this came to pass.

“Arthur...I just want what's best for you,” Hosea urged him after the silence had consumed them both. “Always have; there is a future beyond this. You just have to find it.”

“Ain't never thought about what comes after,” Arthur admitted quietly. “Ain't never had much of a life before you folk, and you was all I had when I needed it. Figured I'd breathe my last with you lot, and now I ain't even have that.”

“Now, I never said it would be easy.”

“Never is,” he agreed. There was a pause before he wondered, “When you-when you left with Bessie...what was it like?”

“Wonderful,” he breathed without thought. Without hesitation. Those early days, when he and Bessie were young and full of life, things _had_ been beautiful. They had little more than a few scant possessions and a thousand dreams. Taking off with the wind, a heart full of hope. Days he would so gladly relive if ever given the chance.

“You weren't scared?”

“A little, perhaps,” he admitted. “It was new, and new can be scary. Don't mean it's bad though.”

“But if it was so great, why'd you come back?”

“Ah....the real question,” he hummed, thinking it over. There were perhaps a million reasons for him to leave. But a million and one for him to return. A longing, a void that couldn't be filled. The dormancy of domesticated life too much for him to bear. All these thoughts and many more fleeting through his mind, but another response chosen entirely.

“Guess I always wondered what I was missing out on. Loved you, and Dutch, and Susan far too much to keep away. Loved the antics we got up to, the trouble we caused. The thrill...that dream we always had.”

“Tahiti?” he wondered, cocking an eyebrow.

“The ranch,” Hosea corrected him. “A bit of land to call our own. Raise a whole brood of horses. That one was yours, if I do remember.”

“More horses than I could ride,” he grinned, the smile the first he'd seen in a long while. Likely the first that had crossed Arthur's face since he'd been injured, given how weary the man looked. A warmth in his heart at the gesture. “Yeah...I remember.”

“It was a silly dream, but what do we live for if not dreams?”

“You sound like you've been reading Dutch's books.”

“I'm not a fan of Miller,” he confessed, “but the man does have some good points.”

“I'll have to take your word on it,” Arthur shook his head. “Just glad you're still around, cause I never understood that stuff, and Dutch ain't got the patience to teach me.”

The comment, heartfelt as it was, made him scoff.

“You weren't willing to learn, if I remember rightly,” Hosea pointed out. “Every time he'd open that book you'd start hollering till you were red in the face, behaving as though the damn camp was on fire. You even went as far as hiding it one time; told Dutch you dropped it in the river-”

“Ain't got no clue what you're talking 'bout,” Arthur defended himself.

“Dutch was furious; made you go out and find it. You spent two hours up to your waist in freezing cold water looking for that damn thing before you finally fessed up to hiding it under your bedroll. All that nonsense to try and get out of having to read it.”

“Worked, didn't it?”

“Well...suppose you have a point. Dutch didn't force you on it after that; think he was too afraid of you taking off with them again.”

“Sure loves those things, don't he?” Arthur mused, his lips pursed. “Remember I got him that one for his birthday that year? Something about America or what not.”

“You mean the one he made all of us sit down and listen while he read out loud?”

“And started from the beginning every time someone complained?”

He felt a groan come on. The gesture, while nice, had been infuriating. Dutch ever persistent in sharing his passion, claiming they all needed to be _educated_. He could grin and bear it well enough; Arthur, older then, was more dutiful then he had been in his youth, but John...John was perhaps ten times worse than Arthur ever was.

The kid purposely letting out exaggerated groans, each one prompting the man to start over. Silencing only when Susan had threatened his behind with a spoon. Even so, they spent the entire night there, cooped up in front of the fire, fighting off sleep before Dutch, finally exasperated, slammed the book shut and stormed off to his own tent, ranting about how no one appreciated fine art.

They were lost in silence again, the memory dissipating between them. A morose feeling building in his chest. Longing for times long gone, hoping...hoping there was still a chance at more. That everything they had worked for in these past two decades wasn't gone. The heaviness, weighing on him, the fatigue he fought more often than not these past days catching up with him. Arthur seeing it as well, a sympathetic grimace coming from him.

“I'm but a fool, talking your ear off when you should be resting up, getting better.”

“You can talk till both my ears fall off, far as I'm concerned.” He was just glad, grateful to see the boy here. To know that he was alright. Times ahead of them might be tough, he knew. But for now, for now they were alright.

“True as that might be-I'd feel better if you slept.”

“Ain't done nothing but sleep.”

“Don't get all twisted,” Arthur rebuked him. “It's good for you; what you always told me, growing up. Need you strong, old man. I'll get on outta here...see if I can't get find a wagon, get you on home that way.”

“A wagon?” he shook his head at the ludicrous thought. “No need to go through all that trouble; just a good horse is all I need-”

“Now, you ain't in no position to be riding,” Arthur cut him off.

“Arthur...” he growled, his voice low. Though lacking intimidation if any indication by the glower on his face.

“You just rest up, let young folk like myself figure out the rest. Sides', I gotta get Dutch home as well; no point in making more than one trip.”

“Dutch?” he frowned, “he ain't back at camp?”

“No, I...I got him holed up somewhere else,” the man confessed. “Shady Belle was too far for him, and well...we lost the damn horses. Long story, I'll...tell you 'bout it later.”

There was comfort in that. Something warm that seeped into his bones. It was a promise that that clung to. _Later_. A promise he'd be back. A promise of a future, of companionship, and an end to the loneliness he’d steeped in for days.

Hosea melted into the slightest of smiles, squeezing Arthur’s hand gently in return.

“I'll hold you to that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we're here folks! I know this has been long awaited, the suspension of waiting on Hosea. It's been a rough few chapters, but we made it at last. 
> 
> Arthur finally gets some TLC that he needs, a bit of comfort that he sorely needs. He has a lot on his mind and Hosea is giving him options without deciding for him, which is something Arthur needs to think about. 
> 
> The question remains: What will Arthur do? What choices do you think he'll make? And what of Dutch? The future of the gang...still so many things left to go over. 
> 
> We are over halfway through now, we're looking at about 45 chapters, so we are making progress. 
> 
> Share your thoughts, don't be afraid to drop in, share your speculations. I love hearing from you all, it perks up my day knowing you enjoyed reading. 
> 
> And I'll see you all on Friday! Have a safe week with all the crazy weather out there!


	26. Pinkertons

He sat by Hosea’s side until the man was well asleep. It hadn’t taken nearly as long as he’d expected— Hosea was understandably weary, though his exhaustion clearly ran deeper than he had expected. It was unnerving, seeing him so frail. Hosea was plenty of things but weak had never once been one of them… still, the simple act of seeing him helped. It had been far more than he could hope for, the small miracle warming something inside of him, offering a fragment of hope for him to cling to. Feeling as though a thousands worries had evaporated like morning dew in the rising sun.

Only to be replaced by a thousand new ones. There was still a conflict waging within him. Doubts and certainties battling with one another. Mulling over what Hosea had said. Wondering if it was possible. If there was still a chance.

For Dutch. With Dutch.

Wondering if he could even find itself in him to give him the chance. The idea fluttering through his mind; weak but determined, like a sparrow defending her nest from a snake. Repetitive. Infuriating. A vague speck against a pale blue sky, flitting madly. There one moment. Gone the next. Thoughts drifting, fading as he crossed the road. Coming to a stop as he saw them. 

Dakota and The Count.

He blinked.

Clear as day they were. Hitched together in front of Schultz Gunshop. As though they had always been there. Something funny and ill settling in his gut. Because he knew they hadn't been. How they got there, a mystery. One he wasn't sure he wanted to question. The chance he was mistaken impossible; Dakota he’d recognize anywhere, but The Count stood out like an especially sore thumb around the drab everyday breeds that filled the area.

Or perhaps, more accurately, he stood out like a red rose stark among briers, his gleaming white hide typically kept so meticulously clean it shone with the sunlight. The sole reason Dutch valued the Arabian, besides his ceaseless loyalty.

Not that one could guess that at the moment; not with the stallion’s coat stiff with muck and matted down, lending a far less elegant look than what Dutch preferred. What the man would say if he could see him now; agitated and pawing at the ground as he drew near.

“You're alright, boy,” he told him gently, hands coming up to rest on Dakota's flank. The mustang started nudging him, drawing a laugh from him. “Yeah, I'm happy to see you too. Where'd you get up to, fella?”

Fingers ran over his form, hands pressed against warm flank as he searched. Content to find nothing ill, noting that other than the dirt, they both seemed to be okay. Startled as they had been, they must have stuck together when fleeing the swamps. Found by a stranger, and brought back to town, perhaps in attempt to find their owner, or to make some quick money. He wasn't sure which, and wasn't much inclined to try and find an answer. A quick scan of the immediate area finding no attention drawn towards him. Folk far too focused going about their day, slogging through the mud and grime under the warming sun.

He turned back towards the pair, soft whispered words of reassurance as he ran a hand down Dakota's neck. His attention turned next to the saddle bags, finding them picked clean; a sour realization that someone had helped themselves to all of his things. He should have been upset, but that emotion was weak, chased away as Dakota nudged him happily, searching his pockets for any treats he might have. Drawing a heartfelt laugh from him. Lasting only a moment.

The Count, it seemed, was agitated.

The horse dug his hoof into the dirt, his ears pinned flat; if it were possible for a horse to growl, Arthur would imagine the horse would be doing so right now, fed up as he was. Arthur raised an amused eyebrow, another laugh breaking free.

“You ain't foolin no one with all that fussin,” he reached out, hand resting on the horses' nose, stilling him. “Dutch got you right spoiled, he does. You far too pampered; ain't used to being on the road for this long, are ya?”

The Count flicked his ears forward at the mention of his name. Arthur grinned, stroking his neck. “Yeah...your man is fine. I'll get you to him, just...hold up a minute; we can't leave old Buell behind. Hamish will skin me alive. Hang me up like one of his trophies on the wall.”

He already wasn't looking forward to explaining to the man that his gun was, for sure, lost. He wouldn't want to imagine explaining the same for his horse. Bastard as he was, there was no doubt the man adored him. To return without him...well, Arthur doubted _that_ offense would so easily be overlooked.

He doted on the pair for a few passing moments, a smile on his face as he worked their reigns free. Prompting them to wait as he turned back towards the other. Buell was waiting for him impassively, ears twitching as he approached. Far less enthused to see him, though more settled than The Count appeared to be. Arthur gave him stout praise, as he slipped his reigns free, moving to pull himself up.

His fingers had just gripped the saddle, his foot slipped into the stirrup, when he suddenly froze once more. He'd seen them, just over the saddle; a flash of familiarity than raced through his core, deep down to the depths of his soul. Arthur sucked in a breath, ducking his head, heart hammering in his chest.

He was a fool.

Coming out here before checking. He knew that this was dangerous territory. Knew that they would recognize him if they even half glanced his way. Arthur pressed his face against Buell's side, hoping and praying he would go unnoticed. That the warmblood's large flank would give him the protection he so desperately sought.

Not just for him.

There was a bite of fear he couldn't deny, despite knowing that he could take them on easy enough. A few well placed shots, then he'd mount up and speed away before the heat of the law truly came down upon him. Be nothing more than a whisper fading into the mist. Arthur knew he had been in worse situations.

But he couldn't.

Wouldn't.

Hosea.

He'd have to leave Hosea behind.

Any chance of him coming back here after a deed like that was out of the question. He'd not get anywhere within miles; hell Blackwater itself wouldn't be far enough away. It'd bring a whole swarm of new agents, and only add fuel to the fire. They'd no doubt comb the town in efforts to find him-and it wouldn't be him they found.

But Hosea instead.

How far the family would go to protect him, Arthur didn't know. And it wasn't something he could rightly ask of them. Hell, they folk might even give him up simply to pacify the town, to save their own skin. By now they had to know the man was wanted; if he brought chaos to them, he wouldn't blame them for what would follow.

No-it wasn't an option. Wasn't a possibility. Buell nickered, Arthur hushing him with a low whisper. Hoping, praying, that the steed would stay calm. That he wouldn't choose this moment to act out in the manner Hamish so often accused him of. He risked a glance up, watching the pair on the porch. Milton reading a letter, the other...the name he couldn't rightly remember, try as he might, pacing behind him. Breath held, Arthur willed them not to glance over.

“Damn bastard,” he heard Milton curse, an unusual lack of decorum from the man who was at all other times woefully uptight. Arthur watching as he handed the letter over towards the other.

He furrowed his brow, turning the letter over in his hand, “What is it?”

Arthur was curious as well. A bit of hope fluttering in his chest. A reaction so bitter over a simple letter meant its contents were predictably undesirable. Bad news for them could mean the opposite for him. For the others. Arthur let out a slow breath, waiting. Watching.

“It's from our informant,” Milton shook his head. Huffed out a sigh, as if his job were simply not worth the effort. “He's says he's pushing up the job to Friday; something about a prime opportunity. Says that with Morgan and Matthews gone, there's fewer guns. Gang will be split up to make for easier targets.”

Arthur’s heart thundered in his ears. Unhearing, unable to believe. To process what had just rightly been said. They had a rat...there was a rat in the gang. Someone was talking, all for the benefit of saving their own neck. But who?

  
He kept listening. As much as he wanted to puke, or storm over to them in a rage and ferret the answer out himself, he stayed firmly in place.

“Friday? Do we have the time-”

“I don't think we have any other options, Ross,” Milton cut him off.

“With all due respect, sir, I don't see why you are letting this bastard call the shots. He’s… Well, you know.”

“True, he's a rotten, vile snake that's somehow worse than the rest of those low-brow criminals, the very reason he was so easily swayed to our cause. I'm sick of dealing with this bastard; man figures himself something nasty, and he is— just not in the way he thinks.”

“If he’s not trustworthy, then why—“

“Oh, the man is plenty trustworthy. He gives good intel— Without him, we would’ve lost them after Valentine. And he’s damn sure they don’t suspect him. He’s common scum, Ross, but he’s useful. Thinks he’s got us in his pocket— the fool. The way I see it, we let him think whatever the hell he wants. As long as he’s gets us Van der Linde himself, I don’t care if he thinks he’s the Queen of England.”

Dutch...of course they wanted Dutch. Always had; the man their main concern even all those months ago up by Valentine. The same offer extended to him, the same offer he had turned down. Remembering just then how Dutch had goaded him, had asked why he hadn't taken them up on it. A joke, or so he thought then. Realizing now there might have been more malice behind it all.

A bitter hurt he buried deep inside of him. New worries gracing his mind. The gang...the others. They were in trouble. Something about a job they were stumbling right into. Unaware. He had to stop them, had to...

What?

Even if he could get them to listen, he didn't even know who might be ratting them out. Gone far too long now to even begin guessing; the simple fact of not being with the gang for these past weeks left him at a severe disadvantage. Unsure who may have been slighted so direly that they might betray the gang. Unknowing in how dynamics had changed, in who might have been tempted enough to talk, a list of names going through his mind. Arthur glanced back up as Milton sighed, a curse breaking the air.

“Right then; send one of the boys back to town, deliver a message. Let him know that we'll be ready.”

“You think this will work?” Ross wondered, skeptically. “I mean, he is an outlaw-”

“By the end of this week, the Van der Lindes will be nothing more than fireside stories spun to scare youngsters. And we can wash our hands of all this mess, and get Cornwall off our backs. We'll hang the lot of them, rid this country of their filth, and restore some goddamned civility back to this land.”

“And what of Bell?”

He froze, breath caught in his chest. Micah...he should have known...he should have...

“What of him?” Milton seemed irritated by the question, as though the answer were obvious.

“We just going to let him go?”

“For now,” the man mused, chewing on his lip.

“Since when do we just let scum like him go?”

“Since he can sniff out the others. The Van der Lindes aren't the only lowlifes around here, Ross,” Milton reminded him, if sharply. Angry. “He fell in with them; there will be others, and he’ll find them too. New threats rising up once we take care of them; new fools to sway. Bell will serve his time with us before he is… retired. That’s just how it works.”

It was Ross' turn to sigh, the man scowling. Arthur could recognize the look of a young man pressed upon by a system that disgusted him. Also knew the look of one who would no doubt give in to that system, rather than rise against it. That's how these lawmen were. Were he not reeling with anger and malice, the blind allegiance might have turned his stomach.

“Understood—“ Ross turned away, muttering, “I just don't agree.”

“It’s not your job to agree,” Milton was on him in a second, just as fearsome and unyielding with his partner as he was with the outlaws he abhorred, “Just see that it gets done. You aren’t paid to ask questions, got it?”

He waited a beat, Ross giving in with a nod. Milton seeming calmer, an almost wistful tone to his voice as he went on.

“Good-come now; there's a lot to do, and not a lot time to see it done.”

Arthur watched, overwrought with emotion, as the pair left. Roiling with a thousand different thoughts and just as many feelings. Still trying to process what had been said, what he had just learned. Micah...

How long had Micah been playing them? Since the very beginning?

Anger now. Brewing in the recesses of his mind. Growing.

The man hadn't been running with them long; less then a year. Dutch embracing him a few months prior the whole mess in Blackwater. Claiming the man had saved his life, inviting him into their fold of miscreants. Turning a blind eye to all his misdeeds. And oh how there were plenty.

Micah was always an outlier.

Uncouth, despicable, cowardly and full of excuses. Almost miraculous, nearly comical. The man intent on lazing about camp, hassling the ladies, spitting racist taunts just under his breath like the coward he was. Micah had always been a pain in the ass. Had always gotten under his skin. More a nuisance than a threat; or so he thought.

Thinking back to all the trouble he stirred up. Massacring a town for the hell of it, charging into a job half-cocked so he could justify killing a dozen people. Like he had in Strawberry. And Blackwater. And the stagecoach job.

Hell, he had had his thumb in the parlay with Colm, too. Arthur remembering what Hosea had said; it hadn’t been Dutch’s idea— he’d merely gone along with it.

Dutch had admitted as much. Micah had been the one to pressure him into the meeting. Micah had been the one to drag Arthur along. Micah had persuaded Dutch to turn away once Colm had taken him; convinced Dutch to leave Arthur to the mercy of the O’Driscolls.

Had it been his plan all along? To slowly pick them off, to turn them over to the law? Arthur merely the first of many, in a long winded plan for his own selfish desires? A plan, apparently, to follow suit with all the others.

He would stop him. A silent promise made as he mounted. Knowing just then that he'd do whatever it took to save the others. He needed to go. He needed...

Dutch....

He needed Dutch.

The man would know what to do.

He needed to get back. The anticipation was thick, near palpable as he rode on out. Stiff and stoic atop Buell; Dakota and The Count falling in behind him.

He had to get back to Dutch. Had to talk with the man, had to find out exactly what they was planning.

Figure out a way to stop whatever it was, before it was too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes....
> 
> I doubt anyone is surprised by Micah talking. Honestly it wouldn't surprise me to learn he'd been playing the gang from the start. Dutch having all these doubts about everyone except for the person he should be doubting. Micah's seems to have him fooled well enough, and the others too, given what we've overhead. 
> 
> Though what Micah is planning is anyone's guess. We'll find out, soon enough, I gather 
> 
> :)
> 
> I'll see you all Tuesday. Everyone have a lovely weekend!


	27. Truths

Try as he might to grab hold of any tendril of sleep, he found himself wrapped firm in the hold of exhaustion. Teetering on the brink of collapse, but unable to give in. Some greater force seemingly determined to keep him awake, trapped in his suffering. His thoughts dragged horrifically slow, repeating whispers of failure and doubt. Speculating on what had gone wrong. When it all had gone wrong. If _he_ had done wrong.

That thought shaking him. The gripping fear, the verge of a panic washing over him as he found himself left here, in the care of a man that was a complete stranger. Wanting to curse and damn Arthur for what he had done, the sense of betrayal still thick within his veins, hardening like ice. Only to be stopped short, wondering just then. Was it even betrayal?

It felt like he was drowning.

Or maybe that was the panic setting in.

Panic kept tampered through sheer resolution alone. Distracting himself from the impending attack by doing what he did best. Planning. Thinking things through. Knowing that things could have gone a hundred different ways. Understanding there were yet a thousand different ways they still could go. Dutch practicing mentally, preparing what he might say, of what might happen, of what could be if he just found the right words.

He still wasn't sure what to make of things. His mind still awhirl as it had been after first discovering Arthur had survived his encounter with Colm. Memories hearkening back to that day, wishing momentarily that he never agreed to that parley. Wondering to where they might be now had he not. Certainly not here. Certainly not alone.

Though not entirely alone. The strange man who he had been saddled with keeping a close eye on him from a distance. Wary of him, unsure, but for some reason beholden to Arthur, intent on forcing him to stay there. Dutch hardly needed the encouragement, or the threat, whichever way it was to be perceived. He'd lost a lot more blood than previously thought, almost too weary to lift his head when it came time to eat. Grudgingly letting the man help him, listening inattentively to him talk, sharing mundane utterances in return.

And after, only after he had finished, did the man offer him something for the pain. Dutch left with a slight buzz as he drifted. Sleep welcoming him, inviting him in deep, casting him into a jumble of nonsensical dreams.

In them he saw memories of the past, though distorted they were. Most of the people he knew were involved in them, friends and lovers of his past, brothers and comrades of the present, and Arthur was at the forefront of near every one. Sometimes silent, only watching the events unfold, other times, vocal. Announcing his displeasure, his doubts, his concerns. A few of the worries turning into altercations.

He woke, abruptly, from one when Arthur had outright sneered and called him a traitor.

_You ain't any better than **him.**_

Woke up from a cold sweat that time. His heart racing in his chest, pounding so fierce his ribs hurt. Eyes searching in the darkness, coming to grip with reality. Slowly distinguishing truth from fabrication. The words, so clearly spoken by Arthur, stuck in his mind.

Him...

Dutch swallowed, speculating who 'him' was. Arthur referring to his father? A bastard piece of shit that fouled the air whenever his name was grudgingly brought up?

Or were those words a reflection on what Hosea had accused? Of him being no better than Colm...

His throat was suddenly felt dry. His heart all caught up in there as he closed his eyes. Hosea...yet another thing he had so fouled up.

He had abandoned Arthur in his time of need, had all but driven Hosea away, straight into the arms of the Pinkertons, damning him to his fate. Two sins he was certain he'd never be absolved of. His soul would be damned for eternity, if he so happened to believe in that nonsense, for that alone. And yet, that was not even the start of where he had done wrong.

His grievances were far more egregious . Stretching the span of his life, no doubt, the far worst were more recent. Blackwater perhaps the beginning of all this mess. Lured into disaster by the whispers of an easy score. A Siren's song of wealth just beyond his fingertips. Money never gained, lives lost. Davey, Mac, Jenny...he'd put others in danger too. 

Sean held captive and tormented by bounty hunters. John nearly eaten, bearing the scars of his ordeal to this day. The push of it all leaving them stranded in cold, continuously pushing east, further away from their dream of a ranch, of an idyllic life.

Things changing far too fast to reason with. Being chased by O'Driscolls, by Pinkertons, Cornwall seeking their blood as well. Desperation setting in, forcing them to become reckless.

_Nothing but a bunch of killers._

That was what Hosea had said.

How he missed him.

The revelation settling in deep, like stones in a pond. Dutch feeling as though he was slowly losing everything. Everything he had built, crafted and created. All ruined by his touch, his maniacal desires. Each and every decision digging a deeper hole.

They had nearly lost Jack. _Had_ lost Sean. The poor kid. And Hosea...Hose was the most recent to join that number. He might as well have lost Arthur, though ironically he should have accepted that fact weeks ago. There was little he had done to prevent it, and even less to change it. Had even gone as far to lie, though for good reasons.

He’d done it for _them._ For the others.

If he hadn’t, they would’ve gone. He knew that. Knew that they would’ve dropped everything and put down their lives to get Arthur back. Would have happily picked up a gun, men and women alike, and raised hell until he was back safe. They’d have acted the moment Arthur didn’t come back.

They didn't leave men behind.

He couldn’t let them do that. Couldn't afford it. To further disrupt their fragility in such trying times. As unfortunate as it was, there were times tough decisions had to be made. And so he had; with the best of intentions.

Or so he liked to tell himself.

But he was lying.

Dutch could remember it now. He had said himself that he’d walk into hell so long as Arthur was watching over him; whether that, too was a lie, he wasn’t sure. If nothing else, it was a failing. The moment his mettle was tested, Dutch withered. Turned away. Left Arthur to walk into hell alone when he himself would never have done the same.

He should’ve gone. The thought bitter, bringing a sour taste to his mouth. He should’ve dropped everything; should’ve gathered the boys and razed those bastards to the ground to get his son back, consequences be damned.

But even the best 'should have’s’ didn’t mean anything.

He couldn't change what was already done. He could only look forward, steeling within himself a new resolution to right whatever wrongs he had done. To make things better. To save what little was left before it was all lost.

The mental gymnastics leaving him exhausted. He drifted once more. Sleep consuming him, dreams fleeting this time around. Empty like the hole within his chest. Blinking, sluggish as he came to. Spatters of darkness clouding his vision. Seeing him there, above him, and for a moment he was convinced it was nothing more than a dream.

The pain convinced him otherwise. A curse splitting the air as he jerked, tender skin pulling, threatening to tear. Arthur, a scowl on his face, pressing him back down. Keeping him pinned to the bed with ease.

“Ain't gotta get yourself so worked up, damn fool.”

Arthur...Arthur was here. Dutch reeling, scrambling after his words with a newfound desperation, trying to summon up the speech he had spent so long carefully crafting. But those words were gone. Unreachable.

It was quite a feat, or so Hosea had once said. To leave the great Dutch Van der Linde speechless. Yet he was, thoroughly, at a loss. Mind racing, grasping, desperate for something. Anything. What a sight he must look, something he'd despise-if he had found enough wherewithal to think about anything other than Arthur.

“You... came back? You’re here.”

It was a stupid thing to say. He knew it the moment those words left, sounding painfully dumb. Of course he came back. To think otherwise was frankly absurd; Arthur always came back. _Always._

But Arthur seemed less enthralled by their reunion than Dutch.

“What job was you running?”

Arthur was prodding. Ignoring Dutch, seeming to stare through him. Dutch recoiled slightly, mind churning as he tried to figure out exactly what Arthur was getting at.

“Job?” he furrowed his brows, “There’s no job. Arthur I-”

“Don't play an idiot, Dutch,” Arthur hissed. Turmoil in his eyes. An edge of anger there as well. Like the briefest beginnings of a storm at sea; dangerous. “There was a job, and the others— they have no idea what the hell they are walking into. Whatever it is, its a trap, and I need to know what, so come clean and tell me.”

All this talk of traps and plans. The words sat in his mind. Heavy and irritating. What on earth was he going on about? Eyes flitting about, looking. Searching.

“I don’t—“

“He ain't here,” Arthur cut him off once more, “just us fools.”

As though their companion was someone to be wary of. A possible concern, though hardly on Dutch's mind. Then something urgent crept in his tone, less angry than before. Worried now, it seemed.

“I know we ain't seeing eye to eye right now, Dutch, but I need you to help me out; tell me what you folk was planning? I’m gonna try and stop them, but I need to know what I'm walking into 'fore I get there.”

He shook his head, confused still. Trying to follow. Perhaps it was the fatigue weighing him down, causing his thoughts to stick. Maybe it was the pain, blanketing over his other senses. He couldn't quite grasp onto what Arthur was after, and try as he might, he couldn't seem to convince the man of this. He’d never been one for admitting to real weakness; they both knew that. Perhaps it was a measure of irony; that stubborn trait now hindering, rather than helping.

“Dutch,” Arthur shifted above him, waiting till their eyes met. “I know you was in the city; what was you planning?”

The plan... in the city.

All of it clicking into place at once. Dutch’s eyes lit up in remembrance.

The bank.

Their last big score, the ticket to their freedom. The Lemoyne National Bank had vaults deep enough that were saturated to the brim with riches. More money than they could ever dream of. Enough to get them away from this miserable mess. Enough to start over with. A job they had been testing; poking and prodding this past week.

A job they were ready to execute; had this misfortune not fallen him. The confession falling free from his lips, watching as Arthur's expression turned cold. A glower in his eyes as his face dropped. His words, almost coming off in a hiss.

“Have you lost your goddamn mind?”

“It's a good lead,” Dutch defended, his own retort bitter. Angry in return at the prospect of being questioned.

“You any idea how much a fool you are? Even thinking 'bout trying this?”

“We've taken banks before, Arthur,” he reminded him, a fact all too true. It was what they were known for; hardly a town they worked and left without dipping into said funds. Hell, it wasn't but a month ago that Arthur had gone back to Valentine with the others and cleared the bank there. The irony clinging heavily to his words.

“Small banks, yeah,” the man agreed. “This ain't in the middle of nowhere Dutch; it's the damn capital.”

“Which means the take is good.”

“Good like it was in Blackwater?” he wondered just then, “what, was Micah whispering in your ear 'bout this too?”

To that, his brow furrowed, the annoyance turning to frustration. Arthur already having made it known, well and clear, his dislike for the man. Had repeatedly brought it up near every day since the man had joined them; frankly he was done with it all.

“This is hardly the time for this; I don't understand why it _always_ comes back to Micah, what is your problem with him?”

“My problem with him is that he's a rat, Dutch,” Arthur spat out. “The fool's been talking with the Pinkertons.”

“That's not-” he started, faltering, swallowing heavily. Anger burning incessantly through his veins. Out of everything, after all that had happened, after _everything_ he did, to come to this? 

“You have gone too far this time, Arthur. Micah has been _nothing_ but loyal,” he finally managed to spit out. 

“He ain't loyal to no one save for himself,” the man bit back, just as angry.

“He'd never-”

“ _He'd_ never?” Arthur raised an eyebrow. “You ain't even know him, Dutch. He ain't even been running with us for a year. And half that time he's been off on his own doing who knows what?”

“Just like someone else I know,” Dutch retorted, the bite low. Foolish, perhaps, unjustified no doubt. Unable to help it, regardless. He watched Arthur's expression darken.

“How you think I heard 'bout this job? Surely not from any of you, seeing as you done chased me off the first chance you had.”

The question, hanging in the air. Dutch set to refute it, but found himself once again lost for words. His mind, racing. Trying in vain to piece things together. A truth there he couldn't dismiss. Because Arthur was right. He hadn't been with them. One might have guessed, knowing their nature, seeing as they were always pulling jobs. Their livelihood all but depended on it. 

Yet the bank was no small job. It would require most, if not all their guns to pull off; a task that was decidedly getting more unfeasible as their numbers dwindled. He swallowed thickly, meeting Arthur's gaze.

“Could've heard it from a few different fools,” he reasoned, still denying it. Any one of them could have been overheard, rumors swirling, speculating. Arthur clever enough to piece it together, to use it to his advantage to-what? What would him proclaiming such accusations gain him?

Certainly not favor.

Casting suspicion off of himself?

“I trust him, Arthur,” was all he could manage.

There was a bitter expression on his face, something dark and foreboding. Yet his voice wavered, nearly breaking when he responded.

“Sure. Ain’t never been nothin but trustworthy, right? Hell, you known him all of six months! With history like that, just easier to assume I been the one backstabbing you. “

“Arthur-”

“Don’t— just… don’t,” he cut him off with a terse sigh. “Ain’t got time for pretty words. We got bigger problems now— if we don’t stop this from happening, they’re gonna get themselves killed.”

Dutch’s face wilted for a second; wanting more than anything to argue, to deny those accusations. Though it faded, faced with this new reality his features twisting into something stern.

“Don't be ridiculous,” he scolded him, wincing as he sat up. Stopping as the other growled at him. He let out a sigh, sinking back into the mattress. “Despite what you believe, they are still my gang. Nobody's going anywhere without my say-so. So if there even is a trap-it ain't gonna work.”

“Micah thinks different,” Arthur answered quietly. “Letter he sent says they gonna hit it tomorrow. Don't know what he's told the others, but Agent Milton for sure thinks you gonna be there.”

The mention of the man set his blood boiling. Having dealt with that fool far too many times for comfort. Dutch couldn't stop the snarl that graced his lips.

“And how would you know all this, unless you've been cozying up with Agent Moron?” he wondered, intentionally spitting out the insult.

“Crossed paths with them up in Annesburg.”

“The hell you doing way over there?” he wondered, biting back the fear that was lingering.

Annesburg was a dreadful spit of a town, hardly worth their time let alone Arthur's. Van Horn he could see, the lawless trove attracting all sorts of vermin and a perfect place for one with a bounty to lie low.

But Annesburg was Cornwall's town. The very man funding the Pinkertons in this outlandish chase, constantly breathing down their necks and threatening their very existence. It was toying with danger, practically begging for trouble to be there.

Dutch wondering just then if he had been the one to force Arthur that way. With all the ruin they had left in their wake, there were fewer and fewer options left for solitude. For peace....

Though he wouldn't find it there. Couldn't. It wasn't practical, nor was it safe. He watched Arthur sigh, the man crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Was there lookin' after Hosea,” he muttered quietly.

The words, hitting him like an icy blast of wind. A chill, seeping into his bones. The starkness of his face must have been apparent, because he couldn't get the words to form; all of it lost on the tip of his tongue.

“Couldn't rightly bring him far; bad as he was,” Arthur explained, his voice drawn thin. “Got him somewhere safe, though. Away from them bastards.”

“He's alive?” Dutch breathed, his own voice near a whisper. The world, for the briefest of moments, still. Though in the next his thoughts were racing, taking off like a sprinting hare. Quick and sporadic, as though darting through the undergrowth. There, but difficult to grasp.

Felt a weight lift off him. Felt as though his prayers had been answered, as though he had been given a second chance. A feeling of elation lasting only a moment. Anger seeping in next, his gaze dark as he turned towards the other.

“Bastard,” he swore, taking satisfaction in the sour look he got from the other. “You let me think-”

“Cause I thought he was,” Arthur was quick in silencing him. “He weren't waking up, Dutch! What was I supposed to think? They ran him through; worked him over pretty bad,” his voice dropping just then.

Dutch noticed the pain coating his features, the tears the man was quick in wiping away. His voice still feeble, hardly in control as he went on.

“He done told me 'bout you, about what you done. Didn't want to believe it; thought he was spouting nonsense. Guess even after all that, he was still sensible. The only one of us fools worth saving.”

“I-” he faltered, words once again lost. What could he say to that? Certainly unable to deny the truth of it all. Unable to defend himself, to justify the actions taken so long ago. Feeling deflated, defeated and foolish all at once. Dutch collapsing in on himself, weary to bones.

“I am so sorry, Arthur,” he whispered. Perhaps the only fitting thing to say.

Though those words fell on deaf ears. Arthur simply shaking his head.

“Yeah-heard you the first time; still don't change things.”

“We will get through this,” he promised. Surely they could. Surely there was still a chance. The news of Hosea's survival, the fact he wasn't dead all too true of a sign. A good omen in all this dark time.

Arthur didn't respond to that. His gaze cold as he turned, unwilling to stop as Dutch called after him. It was only when he struggled to sit that he ceased his departure, Arthur turning back to him with a scowl. Crossing the room in a few short steps. Dutch unable to protest as he was pushed back down, feeling far weaker than what he should.

“You just making things worse; you need to rest.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?” Dutch wondered sarcastically. “You're off talking about traps and backstabbing, all the while lying to me about things I _should_ know and you-you just plan on taking off again and doing what?”

“I ain't about to let them just walk into a trap,” Arthur scowled.

“I told you-”

“And I'm telling you otherwise,” he snapped, surprising him. There was no waver in his voice, an air of authority he hadn't heard from the man before. He was so used to otherwise, so used to Arthur backing down at the first sign of contention.

Arthur, it seemed, had changed.

Maybe not completely. His tone softening with a sigh as the man sat down near him once again.

“Listen to me,” he pleaded, “if there ain't no trap, then there's no need to worry. But if they go-you really ready to risk all of that? Risk all of them like you done to me? Don't be a fool.”

“I ain't a fool,” he pressed. “But you surely are if you think they'd listen to you. You go in there on your lonesome and they'll shoot you soon as they see you. You need me; you know that you do.”

A challenge there; though feeble. He wasn't sure he'd make the ride that far south. But he knew it to be true. Knew that Arthur was thinking the same with the way he shifted. Dutch expected the man to relent, to concede as he so often did. So he was thoroughly surprised to see him shake his head.

“Ain't got the time, Dutch. Gonna be close as it is, and you know you ain't gonna make it that far. Just gonna have to trust they have more brains than you, and be willing to listen.”

A few of them might. A few of them would. Others...Dutch wasn't so sure. A panic, fluttering in his chest as the images danced through his head. A single man on patrol, trigger-happy no doubt after the recent escapades from the O'Driscolls. Seeing Arthur coming in unannounced. He'd stand no chance.

The fear, renewed as Arthur stood, making once again for the door. A sudden, selfish desire cascading over him. He had Arthur; he'd get Hosea as well. The three of them, the original guard; it was all he needed. Words tumbling out, wrought in desperate pity. 

“Arthur, please-I don't. Don't want to lose you, son.”

He faltered at that, frozen in the doorway. Dutch, thinking for a moment he had reached him. Had finally made the impact he was so desperately trying to instill. Only to feel the hope flutter and dissipate as Arthur turned. A hard-set expression adorning his face.

“You done lost me the night you turned your back on me.”

“Arthur...” the plead hanging heavy in the air. Watching as the man shook his head.

Watching as the man simply left him there. Dutch watching as his masterful plan all but fell in with all the others that had so disastrously failed. Everything lost, everything gained, only to slowly watch it fade once more.

Losing everything the moment he left. The man leaving him with nothing but a series of woeful thoughts, of regrets, and remorse that clouded his vision. Leaving him a far more broken man than he ever thought possible.

Leaving him wondering if there was ever a possibility to come back from this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, a lot to unpack in this one I think.
> 
> Dutch finds out about Hosea, he learns about Micah. If he fully believes it...who knows? And Arthur, is once again, off to save the day. 
> 
> The real question: will he make it in time?
> 
> Oh, also a brief mentioning of Sean. I know a few of you have asked in regards to his fate, and we get our first mentioning here. Not a promising one, but there nonetheless. There will be more on that, later, I haven't forgotten, I promise!
> 
> Have a lovely week, all of you, and I'll see you on Friday! :)


	28. Camp

He'd stayed long enough to share a few parting words with Hamish. Telling him everything and yet nothing all at once. As much as he dared; he couldn't risk the man more than he already was. A relief, though selfishly bitter, sitting heavily in his chest as Hamish promised to keep an eye on Dutch. Should worse come to worse, at least he'd be alright. Arthur had taken a moment to arm himself, relishing in the weight of newfound weapons, before racing out of O'Creagh's Run. Towards what very well might be his demise. 

His heart thrummed in his ribs as Dakota shifted uneasily beneath him. He hadn’t missed the sticky air of Lemoyne, nor the wafting odor of stagnant swamp water carried on every stray breeze, but something similar to homesickness lingered in his chest. A bittersweet sensation lingering in his fingertips, close enough to reach, but not quite hold.

He had wanted to go home.

Had been wanting to; even all of this mess he had gone through hadn't been enough to persuade him otherwise. But he was afraid; to admit otherwise would be a foolish move.

Afraid of whom, he wasn’t sure. His leg still ached; a solid reminder of what had transpired the last time he crossed paths with the gang, but that was the least of his troubles now. The Pinkertons, he knew, were surely holed up somewhere. Seconds ticking by, the time drawing closer for the supposed ambush.

Where that would happen he couldn't be sure. But he figured they were watching. Waiting. And if they spotted him, it was over. They’d surely move on the gang in an instant, realizing the job was blown. If not the gang, then at the very least they’d deal with Arthur then and there before shepherding the gang to their demise as well.

And of course there were also the raiders that liked to frequent the area, but he considered them a minor nuisance at worst these days. All bluster and little else-still they could cause unwanted havoc if they so wanted. Arthur making a mental note to keep an eye out for them as he rode on.

Homesickness, or whatever it was, bloomed into nausea. Trepidation.

He hadn’t even decided what he’d say. Surely something— he’d never been good with words, and had far less skill in persuading a stubborn gang of outlaws to back down from a job so tantalizing as this. Dutch, no doubt, had spun this job into something so saccharine it was akin to nectar from a flower. A faint promise of one last take to soothe all the pain and hardships they had been through. Mostly likely he'd gone on about revenge, recompense, or remorse-all the usual in his grandiose speeches. Arthur coming in, all blunder and little else – well, it'd be like battling a behemoth to convince them otherwise.

Then there was Micah. Knowing what he knew. Knowing what he'd done.

Micah would shoot him dead on sight for sure. Proclaim he was _protecting_ everyone, no doubt. Arthur wouldn't be able to even draw-if he so much as flinched for his weapon, he'd make himself a target to anyone blind enough to fall for Micah's likes of treachery and betrayal. Even if he could gun the man down, and surely he could, he'd all but seal his own fate right then and there. Hell, even trying to out the man in the midst of the gang was a dangerous deal. 

Arthur wasn't sure if they would listen. If they would even let him try and explain; their minds, no doubt made up from weeks of feasting on plump lies. He found himself faltering, slowing just a hair, that new worry on his mind.

If he rode in, hollering for peace, the others had to listen. Hadn't they?

He wasn't sure.

As much as he hated to admit it, he couldn't be certain of anything once he stepped onto the grounds of Shady Belle. It wouldn't sway him though; even after everything, they were still his family.

He loved them; he couldn't sit by and watch as they ran headlong into danger. Couldn't watch as they marched to undeserved deaths, completely oblivious to the danger. He had to try; however they received him, whatever move they made upon his arrival, he had to try.

Even if it killed him.

Which was a definite possibility. Arthur preparing himself for that, as much as any man could.

He raced down the last stretch of road, anxiety budding. Catching faint glimmers of the house between the trees. Watching and waiting for the challenge of the sentry. Praying it was someone reasonable; someone who wouldn't shoot first and ask questions later.

But he was met with silence. No demands for identity, no cries for backup, or muzzle flashes from the thickets. There wasn’t even a man slumped over asleep at the gate, which had been his first guess.

Perhaps he should have realized sooner; it didn't hit him until he came to a stop near the fountain, dumbfounded, staring at the empty hitching posts. His breaths short as he dismounted, eyes wide as he scanned the area-it couldn't be. The day only just begun and yet...they already...it couldn't be...

His mind raced. Wondering what had gone wrong. Had he been too slow? Had he come a day late, misunderstood entirely? Had the Pinkertons already-

“Arthur?”

He turned at the reverent whisper, barely given a moment's warning before he was pulled into an embrace. Mary-Beth pressed against him tight, her cry drawing the others out. Awkwardly at first, he returned the gesture, before melting into the hug. Consoling her, telling her that everything was going to be alright. Perhaps more from practice than anything else. It didn't take long as more people joined. Tilly letting out an excited shriek, wrapping him in her arms also. The pair of them holding fast, Arthur's heart beating quick in certainty; his earlier fears melting away like ice under the sun.

Karen was there as well, breaking out into happy laughter, hollering for the rest of the camp to _‘come, quick!_. A shout that had roused the others quick enough. Uncle even, letting loose a whoop of joy as he too gathered Arthur in his arms. Arthur allowing it for but a moment before he pushed the other away, calling him an old fool.

Swanson, Pearson, even Strauss ambling over towards him, all of them welcoming, happy to see him. Prevalent fears all but forgotten as he tried to answer the million questions they all had. Each one vague, missing key bits of information he wasn't quite ready or willing to share. His head felt light, as though he had been drinking, a general gleeful feeling imbuing his senses.

Their words broke loose and overlapped, pouring free and chasing away any apprehension he might have held. Easing the pain in his heart that had festered there since his last encounter. Relief flooding him, the weight dissipating. Overwhelming; feeling as though he might break.

And Grimshaw.

Grimshaw pushing her way through, damn near shoving the others aside as she grabbed him. For a moment he felt that anxiety swell again, but it fled as she drew him near in a rare display of affection, fluctuating between chastising and welcoming him.

“Oh, you foolish man! You've had us so worried,” she scolded him, cuffing him upside the head. “Running off like that? What in the world were you thinking?”

“Apologies, Miss Grimshaw,” he finally managed to get out, ducking another slap, fighting off a laugh.

He subjected himself to her fussing, hands turning his own over, running up the length of his arms, cupping his chin, determined to find each every minute scar he might have picked up while away. Any other day he'd bat her hands away; grumble about being grown and not needing her concern. But lord...her cool hands soothed his rough, calloused skin, overflowing with such pure concern and overwhelming love that he just couldn't will himself to turn away from her.

He melted into her touch as though it were an oasis found in the midst of a desert. It was something he hadn't realized he missed; comfort. Reassurance.

More apologies falling from his lips, briefly explaining the confusion. The misunderstanding. Pleading his innocence. Omitting darker occurrences, more dubious deeds to sway her to his favor. He'd have to confess, in time, he knew. For now-for now he simply wanted to relish in this moment.

“Well, all that matters is you're home now,” she told him sternly, still holding onto him. As though he might vanish is she dared let go. “All those boys, kicking up such a fuss over nothing....don't you worry none, they're gonna have _me_ to answer to if they try anything.”

There was equal humor and dread in her reply. Formidable as she was, if the others got in their mind to do otherwise, there was little there could be done about it. Still, he appreciated her determination, the fierceness of her protection.

But the mention of the others sparked something mean in his memory, shattering the warmth of their little reunion. The question falling from his lips without hesitation. Asking, wondering, though he was certain he already knew the answer. It was mere foolish hope that had him even slightly convinced that maybe, just maybe they'd gone off somewhere else. That they hadn't gone riding off into hell itself.

His hopes dashed as she answered.

“You didn't miss them by much-”

“I got to go,” he breathed, shaking his head, going to pull away. Stopping as her hold on him tightened.

“You've only come on back! Come-rest a moment, at least.”

“Folks will be dead if we wait a moment,” Arthur cut her off harshly, watching her expression change. Her brow furrow, eyes growing dark as she watched him.

“What are you going on about?”

“Ain't no time to explain,” he shook his head. Truly there wasn't. Wasn't enough time in the world to explain, let alone enough time for them. If the others had just gone, then there was still a chance. Still the hope to cut them off, to get them to reconsider.

The damn fools.

Grimshaw started at the curse that fell out of his mouth, confused now as Arthur was the one to hold onto her. His own eyes narrow, his tone urgent as he drew her a few paces away from the others.

“I'll explain soon as I can,” Arthur promised, squeezing her arm. “But now-now you gotta get everyone out of here-find someplace safe and lie low.”

“We're plenty safe here as is,” the protest came. Her voice changing, and he could see new worries creeping in as she pulled out of his hold. There was a heavy sigh on her lips, “Now there's no need to get yourself all worked up. Talk to me straight, Mr. Morgan.”

It gave him reason to pause, to watch her close. His jaw set tight, gesturing to hide the slight tremble in his hands. “Them fools is walking right into a trap and they don't even know it. Somethin' bad is brewin', Miss Grimshaw, and I gotta stop 'em fore someone else ends up hurt or worse-”

“It won't,” she still held firm. “Now, I know with how things have been, you haven't been with us these past weeks, but Dutch and the others? They have this-been working on it for a time now. Dutch won't let anything happen to them-”

“Dutch ain't gonna be there.”

She stopped, silent, blinking at him. Her voice slipping as she struggled for the words “Course he is-he...Micah said-”

“Micah's done said a lot of things,” Arthur hissed, “and ain't none of them true. He's been talking with the Pinkertons-guess he's cut some deal with them or what, I ain't sure.”

The words out before he could stop them. Though he wasn't sure why he wanted to stop them in the first place. Something small breaking inside of him as he watched for her reaction. Her expression holding firm, a frown on her face.

“Are you sure?”

The words hanging there, heavy between the both of them. Memories of long ago, dredged up from the past, of other instances when the news of a traitor had come to light. Arthur found himself swallowing, holding onto her arm, meeting her gaze.

“You trust me?”

Her mouth hung open, as though in shock. Snapping close as she let out a huff. “Of course I do.”

“Then you go on; get the others outta here and keep them safe. Don't wait; ain't no way of knowing what that fool's already done told them.”

“Alright then,” she sighed, exasperated. “But Arthur...where are we going to go?” she wondered, exasperated.

“I ain't sure,” he shook his head, “but best you find someplace and quick. Rest of us will catch up, soon as we can.”

There was something that flashed across Grimshaw’s face in that minute that Arthur hadn’t seen in a long, long while. Not since he came down with the flu as a boy and she sat at his bedside. It was painfully fond, but profoundly sad. Though the expression was gone in an instant; it left a knot in his throat.

“Okay,” she said, resting her hand against his cheek, “Okay. You get things sorted and come meet us quick as you can. We'll get you word somehow; let you know whereabouts you might find us once we figure it out. You go on now, get those boys and get back home. You understand me?”

He rested his hand atop of hers for a moment. A nod following suit. “Yes, Miss Grimshaw.”

“Good!” the sternness was replaced; her hands falling to her hips, “Well, what are you waiting for? Go on! Get a move on, you ain’t got all day!”

Arthur bit back a grin. How he missed that. A charm found in her demeanor. A warmth he had been longing for, momentarily chasing away the dread that was slowly building up within him. He tipped his hat slightly and then slipped away to Dakota. There were no time for goodbyes, he justified to himself, intentionally avoiding the others milling about camp. He had already spent far too long here. With a click of his tongue, they were off.

He charged out of Shady Belle just as quickly as he rode in, this time racing down the winding paths into the city. He pushed Dakota just about as hard as he could, hating how slowly Saint Denis came into view. Each moment feeling far too long; so much so that he didn’t even bother to slow when Dakota’s hooves met cobblestone, instead weaving through the thick congestion of civilization as best he could. His heart was pounding in his chest.

Where were they?

His eyes scanning the streets, searching, hoping for any sign of familiarity. If the others were waiting for Dutch then maybe there was a chance. That hope bolstering, the streets quiet. There were odd looks thrown his way as he rode on by. A calmness to the morning that suggested there was nothing ill afoot. He swallowed, feeling confidence seep in. Feeling as though he had actually made it...

Only for newer, darker thoughts to brew in their place. Wondering, for a moment, if perhaps he was wrong. Wondering if Micah had cajoled the others into yet another job. One that was completely different, one that would take them away from the reaches of the city. Away from any interference. Away from any chance of escape-

He flinched as shards of glass rained down around him. The explosion tearing through the streets, shattering windows and drawing everyone’s attention.

There was a collection of gasps and screams that rose around him; men and women alike stood fast, heads turned toward the source, dumbly watching smoke curl into the air. Arthur was no exception, eyes wide. Transfixed. Only to shake it off the next moment, spurring Dakota ahead. Heading towards the chaos. Eyes scanning the crowd fervently.

It only made sense that she’d stand out, stock still, worrying her hands against the tide.

“Abigail!” he roared, yanking Dakota's reins painfully tight, drawing the steed to a stop.

Abigail, eyes wide and mouth agape in either shock or fright, was pale as snow and shaking like a leaf. He reached down, wrapping a hand about her arm, pulling her up onto the saddle behind him. Fishing her out of the panicked masses with ease and spurring Dakota to one side. Away from the flood of panicked souls trying to find a way of escape.

She held onto him fast, clinging as though he might be her salvation. Her words, coming fast, breathy. All tumbling out over one another.

“They got her,” she dug her fingers tight into his flesh as they came to a stop. “We set it off like planned, but the law, they were on us in an instant. She made me go, told me to run-I didn't want to, but Arthur-I-and Jack-”

“Easy now,” he calmed her, turning her way, “slow down. What happened? Who'd they get?”

It wasn't difficult to discern who 'they' were. The law, or most certainly, Pinkertons. If Micah's trap was going to plan. But who exactly Abigail was prattling off about was uncertain. He took role in his head, quickly listing off the names of those he had seen in camp, and of those he hadn't. Trying to piece together what had unfolded, slowly coming to a realization the moment before she elaborated.

“Sadie,” she choked out, “They got Sadie. We was supposed to set it off and get on out of here, let the boys do their thing, but Arthur-I think they knew we was coming. They had to, they was-they was right there!”

Anger swelled within him. Micah betraying them all, the men bad enough, but the women? Last he heard, the Pinkertons weren't even interested in them; just Dutch-mostly Dutch. A few of the rest of them, sure, but Sadie...Abigail-he doubted they were even on their radar. And yet, Micah had no qualms in selling them out to save his own skin.

The damn coward.

“Oh, they knew you were coming alright,” he growled, snarling. “Micah made sure of that.”

Abigail's hold on him loosened slightly. “W-what?”

“Damn rat-this whole thing-he done told the Pinkertons all about it. They fixin to end things here and now, and all you fools done walked right into it.”

Her face was pale, even more so after that confession, turning in uncertainty. “How-why would he-”

“Ain't like he got a conscience. Done told Dutch he weren't worth it, the damn bastard” he swore, sliding free of the saddle. He thrust the reigns into her hands, “Go on, you get back to camp. Grimshaw and the others are packing, and you need to go with them. Tell them they out of time.”

“Arthur...”

“Go on; go be with your boy. I'm gonna go get the others.”

He wasn’t sure how, and he was glad she didn’t ask. If the Pinkertons knew well enough to ambush the distraction, surely they’d be swarming the bank by now.

But he’d always been one to think on his feet. His voice was stern and low as he offered one final warning: Don’t look back.

Nothing good would come of it; as much as he would’ve liked to offer a stilted, improvised speech or an invigorating pep talk, there simply wasn’t time.

He set Dakota running with a sharp shout. Then he set off running too.

The bank was a block or so away; nestled close to the police station, foolishly enough. The streets were empty now; folks long abandoning the area. Arthur ducked under awnings and clung tight to storefronts, hoping he might escape the watchful gaze of the law, who surely were thoroughly spread throughout the city. No doubt their attention on the bank itself, allowing him the moment to draw near.

At the final corner he slowed, creeping towards the edge of the alley, when a voice all too familiar grated in his ears.

  
“Dutch, get out here!”

Milton.

There was a sourness on his tongue, settling the back of his throat. But lord, he would have laughed were the situation any less dire. Because Milton didn’t know.

Seems like the gang weren't the only fools being lied to. Micah seemingly playing this at all angles. Trying to milk all he could out of it. Milton none the wiser as he called once again for Dutch to surrender, unknowing that the man wasn't even here. All this work and he hadn’t even caught the one man he was determined to see dead and gone.

Arthur skirted around the corner, taking the scene in front of him in. Taking a quick number, noting there was a score of them, at least; Milton in the center. But what gave him pause was Sadie. The woman stood tense in his grip, a gun pressed flesh to her head. There was a snarl on her lips as she muttered something unintelligible. Likely a string of curses that would make a hardened sailor blush, if Arthur had to guess.

“Get out here now!” Milton continued his ceaseless barking, “I have no qualms in putting a bullet in her. You really want the blood of _another_ woman on your hands?”

The threat, dangling in his ears. Wondering, for a moment, if he would. Wanting to believe he wouldn't, but knowing deep down the man could. Milton all too eager to make them suffer, to make them hurt, in any way possible. Arthur pressed against the wall, heart hammering, trying to think, trying to decide. He glanced towards the bank, watching. Waiting.

He could just barely make out movement within those walls, just beyond the windows. He waited a moment, then another, for any kind of plan, any sort of response, to come from the bank. To follow their lead, to wait for a distraction. For something.

But there was nothing.

A cold bead of sweat dripping down his neck. Either they were too dumb to even try to save Sadie, or they didn’t care to. Whatever was happening behind those walls, as another moment drew by painfully slow, Arthur felt rage boil up in him. His fingers curled around the gun holstered at his side, pulling it free in one swift motion.

If they weren’t going to do anything, then he would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> See you all on Tuesday!


	29. Saint Denis

He waited. A heartbeat longer-full of wistful desire that something else might happen. That they would do _something._ That they might spare him from making this undoubtedly foolish decision. Nothing good would come from it, he knew. Yet worse things would come if he did nothing. 

His mind made up, he pulled the trigger.

Watching as everyone flinched. Their heads ducking, shoulders hunched at the unexpected crack that filled the air. He kept firing. The echo of gunfire reverberated down the streets. Milton had only been the first of many. The man now slumped over in the street, unmoving. A neat little hole punctured clean through his skull-crimson blood coating the road beneath him.

There were others joining a similar fate. Not Sadie though. Sadie was a fighter.

She was noticeably rough around the edges; unpracticed in art of gunfire, but she was vicious and quick. Arthur had seen her move the moment she felt Milton's grip slacken. Claiming the man's weapon as her own, dropping a few more of the fools that Arthur hadn't taken care of yet. She met his gaze, a brief look of shock crossing her features; though it was smothered by relief a moment later.

Relief that was soon replaced by worry. Seemed the rest of the fools realized what was taking place. In moments the air was alight with return fire, forcing her to duck down behind a wagon. Arthur risked a glance across the street, barely able to see the figures darting within the bank. New gunfire joined the fray. Distracting the agents. It gave him scant cover as he raced up the street.

“Arthur! You came back!”

“Course I came back,” he told her gruffly, ducking down beside her near the wagon. “Someone has to keep you fools out of trouble.”

“I can keep after myself,” she spat out at him, leaning around side. Pulling back as a bullet bit into the wood near her.

“Sure you can,” he jested, somehow finding humor despite all that was transpiring, “doing a fine job of it too.”

“Well, I _was_ doing fine; then it all went to shit. This _was_ supposed to be an easy take.”

“Easy?” he rolled his eyes, “You are all bunch of fools to even consider it-”

His words cut short as another bullet strayed near. Arthur glanced over his shoulder, eyes narrowing as he saw more of them coming down the street. Law and Pinkertons alike-shit, there was damn army of them here.

“We gotta move,” he told her, shifting his weight as he peered around the wagon. They couldn't stay here-safety hardly anything more than an illusion at the moment. They'd be surrounded, shot dead the moment they had a chance. Running was out of question – even if they could find an alleyway to dodge down, the streets spanning around them lined with opposition. A bullet was always quicker.

Always.

“Banks' our best bet,” Sadie tossed out, “the other's will cover us.” Said with such confidence as though it was a sound plan.

Perhaps it was. A strange, unsettling feeling welling inside of him. There was truth in her words, but he didn't like it, remembering all too well how last time they had been eager to shoot him down. But what choice did he have? If he stayed here, he was dead-that much was for certain. Least this way there was a chance; he'd have to hope the fools would hold their fire.

He moved.

Sadie had taken the lead, shoulders hunched and already halfway there, firing off shots as she ran. Arthur closing in right behind. The pair of the bursting through the doors into a makeshift sanctuary. Arthur slammed the doors shut behind him, flattening himself against a wall a moment later, lest he be hit by a stray bullet.

He panted for a moment, exhausted. Nervous, if he had to guess.

“About time you join us, Morgan,” John spat out in greeting. “Sure took your sweet time.”

“Shut it, Marston,” he fired back, somehow finding his voice. “ I'm getting real tired of always saving your ass.”

“Saving _me?_ I weren't the one who got caught.”

  
“What the hell you call this?” Arthur wondered, a growl barely on his lips as another bullet whizzed past his head. He pushed away the from the wall, crouched low to avoid the fire. He couldn't help but wonder how any of them, least of all him, would agree to something so ludicrous. The goddamn fools, though he guessed in the next moment that Micah had been behind it all. A quick glance confirmed that yes, the traitorous bastard was still with them.

There was a smug smile, a knowing glance. One that disappeared so quick that Arthur thought it might have been imagined. A faint impulse to run him through right then and there racing through him. An impulse barely contained.

If he shot Micah down here, he might as well pull the trigger on his own self. It was luck, and luck alone none of the others had turned on him, distracted by more pressing matters to pay him much heed. Maybe they had gone and forgiven his supposed transgressions; or perhaps they were just relieved to have another gun on their side to help save their own sorry asses.

Whatever the case, Micah would have to wait. Arthur far too aware of chaos it would cause if he went off here, denouncing the man in the midst of a shoot out. Far as he was concerned, he was already on shaky ground; a mutual agreement between them all due to a common enemy. How long that truce would last, he couldn't be sure. Last then he needed to do was stroke the flames of the fire.

“Ya know, if this is how you was gonna be, you could have stayed-” John started, only to be cut off.

“If you two ladies are done squabbling, we could really use some ideas here,” Bill snarled. Pulling them back to the present. To the problem at hand.

“They have the place surrounded,” Lenny added in, his voice tight. “We won't be going out front, that's for sure.”

“Course not,” Arthur shook his head. “They got the streets covered, we ain't going nowhere.”

“Barely with us for two seconds and you're all ready to throw in the towel?” Micah derided, scoffing.

“Oh? And I suppose you got a plan?” he wondered, barely able to keep the contempt out of his voice. The jibe meant to be scathing, but his own chest hurt with that response. Because knowing him, the man most likely _did_ have a plan; it just didn't involve any sort of salvation for anyone but himself.

“Yeah; don't get killed,” the man spat back.

Arthur had to give him credit, much as he despised doing so. The ability to keep his cool, to act as though he weren't stabbing the lot of them in the back. To pretend as though he was still running with them, as opposed to leading them straight to their ruin. He was a better actor than anyone had ever thought him to be.

“Well, we have to do something,” Bill cut in. “Sooner or later, we're gonna run out of bullets.”

He was right. Arthur's own chamber nearly empty. Bullets spent, but the horde of them never ceasing. Arthur wondering _just_ how many of these fools had come to take them away. The entire country, it felt like. A goddamn war zone just beyond the door. They'd be riddled with holes the moment they stepped out.

Hell, if they ran out of bullets, they wouldn't even need to step outside. They'd be put down the moment the law realized they were spent; they'd kick in the those doors and deal with them one by one. And that was _if_ they were lucky. Arthur already seeing the cruelty they possessed. It would be ten times that, seeing that Milton had been killed. They would demand retribution for their fallen comrade; thirsting for vengeance.

No… their best chance was to slip free.

Somehow.

The front door was clearly not an option. There were enough men out there to take on an army, and they were anything but. Precious time ticking away before they'd run dry and have no choice but to surrender.

There had to be something.

His head swiveling, searching. Banks like this- and he’d been in more than enough to know them well- didn’t have back doors, nor side exits. One way in, one way out; all of it meant to discourage men like him from robbing them.

Windows, perhaps. There were a few, but none really accessible, and none quite big enough for all of them to fit through with ease. Besides, even the short time it took to scurry through one was precious; unable to defend oneself in the process and it wouldn't take long for the fools out there to catch onto what they were up to. In no time they’d surely be surrounded.

All that remained otherwise were walls.

An idea washed over him. A remnant from one of the many jailbreaks they’d staged over the years.

“Anyone got dynamite?” he wondered just then.

“Still got some from when cleared out those folks,” Lenny hollered back. He watched as the kid fished a stick out, tossing it to him. “You thinking of adding more fire to this fight?”

“More of a way out of this mess,” Arthur caught the stick, crouching low to the floor. Weaving his way about the bodies that were already sprawled along the ground; poor innocent souls caught in all this shit. He pressed his back against the counter, striking a match, watching as the fuse lit.

“What are you doing, Morgan?” Micah snarled, sudden and fierce. Angry, perhaps, that his plan was slowly being fouled. He heard the accusation there, hidden far beneath a layer of anxiety. Anyone else, he presumed, would attribute it stress from the situation at hand.

“You got any better ideas?” He wondered. Challenging. Watching as the man turned away without a word. Muttering _thought as much_ to himself, before hollering out the warning to the rest of the group.

“Watch your heads!”

The explosion was a roar, shaking the building. Shattering glass. Raising screams. His ears were ringing, sound muffled as he blinked in the aftermath. He had been far too close, far too many times. Seems like it was starting to be a habit. But he could see a new stream of light waft in, smiling at the hole punched straight through the wall.

No time to waste. It wouldn't take long for the law to figure out what was going on.

“Come on, fellas,” he hollered to them, pushing himself to his feet. “Bill, Javier; you head on out first. Try to get to the roof, and get us some cover.”

It was a risky call; the last time they had crossed paths had not been pleasant. That animosity still clearly hung in the air between them. He saw the hesitation there, apprehension coating Javier's features, a grudging display of reluctance on Bill's. Wavering, and unsure. The group of them, scattered and unsure seeing as they were missing much needed pieces. Dutch, Hosea...him.

But he needed them; hard and heavy hitters who wouldn't shy away from the potential tempest brewing above. Javier was the first to break, scrambling over the fresh debris, smoke and dust still spiraling in the air. Bill followed; Arthur watching till their forms disappeared from view.

He gave it a moment; a few fleeting seconds. Sighing in relief as the rapid fire turned away from them. New shouts coming forth as the law gestured from across the street, aiming now at the rooftop. They were getting the time they needed.

“Lenny, Sadie-” he motioned to them next. Urging them on; actually growling when Sadie held her ground. The woman liked to flirt with death, an intriguing sentiment when it wasn't dragging the rest of them along with her. She spat, angry like a wildcat, but relented. Pushing hard after Lenny who had all but vaulted through the opening the moment it was mentioned.

It just left the four of them now. Still trading fire with the law across the way. Though scattered now; their attention split. Unsure of where to aim, on who the biggest threat was. More fire raining down from above, pushing the fools back. Giving the rest of them a moment to breathe.

“Charles, Marston,” he gestured at the two, “you go on next.”

That would leave just him and Micah. The thought souring his stomach, in a way. Was it intentional? Maybe not. Fortuitous never the less.

Micah had already shown his colors, there was no question of where his loyalties lay. A commendable feat seeing as he had strung them all along like fools; playing his cards carefully. If Arthur had to guess, the man was likely to play his hand down to the very last card if given the chance; stubborn and cocky as he was, Micah simply wouldn’t spoil his place in the gang.

No...he wouldn’t let them see beneath his facade until he was damn well ready to show them exactly what kind of rat he was. In that way, the gang was safe, so long as they evaded the clutches of the law. Micah might be rat, but he was no fool.

If they slipped free from all this, the man would still need them; for protection against the Pinkertons for his failure to deliver, if nothing else.

But Arthur didn't rightly trust him to not try anything. Surely didn't trust letting him out of his sight. There was no telling the lengths the man would go in justifying his stance when desperation took over. He'd no doubt look for something, _anything_ to show the Pinkertons that he was still useful, even if he didn’t deliver Dutch as promised.

And he wanted, more than anything, to put as much distance between him and the others. They had the law to deal with, the Pinkertons-they didn't need to deal with Micah as well. Wishing for a moment that Milton had been more eager to run the man through as he had with Mac, with Hosea.

The thought gracing him suddenly. Tantalizing. Intriguing. On just how easy it would be. To end it all here and now. To save the gang the trouble of a trial, even if he so wanted to see the spectacle of Micah trying to justify his actions in front of those he'd betrayed.

No one would question it; all of them no doubt willing to believe he had fallen to fire in the fray. There'd be no one to question it, no one else to see it, if it were just the two of them here. It'd take nothing more than a moment, a quick bullet to the head. The man would be none the wiser. A rat he was, but surely he felt as though his secret was safe, and he wouldn't be watching his back quite like he should.

His mind set, his mind made up. Determined. Until Charles spoke, breaking through those dark thoughts. Pulling him out of his rumination.

“You go, Arthur,” the man was pressed up against the wall near the window, watching him.

“Ain't leaving you behind,” he shook his head. Not liking the idea of leaving anyone, least of all him, behind. Not just because he wanted to see his reveries through-though it was the main reason. The other, wanting and needing to see the rest of them to safety. Determined to get all of the fools out of here.

“You're the better shot-they need _you_ ,” Charles stressed, meeting his gaze. The commented stilled him, Arthur sucking in a breath of air. There was so much emphasis on that single word. It held a thousand of meanings, though Arthur wasn't quite sure what they were.

“Micah and I'll hold them here while you get on up.”

“Sure we will,” Micah growled, shooting a glance his way. “Leave us men to handle the real work, while the rest of you run off.”

“We'll be right behind; go,” Charles ignored the insult, focused instead on him. Arthur felt his heart skip, contemplating. Torn in two different directions. Unsure.

“Charles-” he went to argue, to plead, to try and get the man to reason. But his words fell short as the hand landed on his arm, fingers curling into his flesh. John had come up near him, the man urging him on.

“Come on, Arthur-we ain't got time to argue.”

They didn't. A fact that was all too apparent. Arthur watching as the line of men slowly edged closer. He could stay, he could continue to argue, but it would only drum up suspicion. The fanciful thought he held moments ago were dismissed, dashed with this new change of plans. Though the worry still burned; the speculation that Micah may just try something.

Though it was dashed soon after. Out of everyone, Charles could hold his own. It couldn't be helped; Arthur wold deal with Micah later; somehow. For now-now they needed to move.

“Right-” he let out a sigh, “you follow on up behind.”

He heard the other agree. As though there was any other option. Arthur following John's lead, hurdling through the gaping hole, stumbling into the alley. John, for all his foolishness, could actually move when it was required. The man already clinging to the ladder, working his way up. Arthur shortly behind him. The metal rungs warm beneath his hold as he pulled himself up, joining the fray above.

They were more sheltered here, hiding amongst the ridges of the parapet. A fortress compared to the open expanse of the bank. Stooped low, and pressed against the stone, they were all but invincible. For the moment.

It wouldn't take long before the law clambered up after them. There was only so much firepower the gang held, and soon they'd be out. That's when the others would move. His heart hammering as he turned, hearing the noise. The clambering as Charles hefted himself into view. Shaken, his lips drawn tight as he vaulted up the last of the steps.

“They got Micah,” the man breathed, coming near him. “I tried to help but it was too late.”

“Dead?” he wondered. Hoping. Praying for the smallest of fortunes in their favor. Wondering if the Pinkertons saw right through his attempted ruse and were determined to take vengeance. Feeling something akin to remorse when the man shook his head.

“Don't think so-they grabbed him, pulled him out into the street. I couldn't stay-I'm sorry, Arthur.”

“Ain't no one blaming you,” Arthur breathed, biting back a curse. Hell, he'd wondered if anyone here would care. Though he couldn't help but wonder about the convenience of it all. Micah refusing to budge, holding his ground, being taken alive as opposed to just gunned down. Part of the plan? He wasn't certain-nor did he have the luxury of time to think it through.

“We have to move,” Charles pressed, glancing back over his shoulder. Truer words never spoken. If the law had already breached the bank, they'd be up here at any moment.

As if on cue, he heard Bill holler, the man growling as he fired off a few more rounds into the street.

“What's the plan, Morgan?!”

He snarled, ready to shout his own retort, clamping his mouth shut a moment later. Noticing how the others glanced his way, nervously. Understanding just then that they were waiting. Waiting for _him_ to take charge. Deferring to his lead; to his decision.

He was never one to make plans. Never elaborated or schemed or swindled; much preferring to make things up as he went. Using brute force if necessary, beating or shooting his way out of a problem. Not that that would work here. Still, the were waiting; he felt himself swallow.

They couldn't go down; that much was for sure. Fleeing the city? A feat that was out of the question. They couldn't stay here, though. Only one real way to go, now that he thought about it.

“Right-get across the roofs. Keep your heads down.”

“And go where?” Bill growled.

“We'll figure it out,” he snarled, “'less you wanna stay here, then be my guest.”

“Think our best shot is this way,” Lenny cut in, nodding his head to the right. The building near the same height, and easy enough jump. “Come on.”

“Lenny, wait-” he swore, watching the kid take off running. Watching as he cleared the gap easily, pausing to wave the rest across. Bill followed, as did Javier, Sadie-the rest of them all spurred on by the figurative dogs nipping at their heels. Charles nudging him, urging him on. Arthur sucked in a breath, the air thick and heavy as he raced to the edge, a brief terrifying moment as he sailed through the air.

The jump far easier than he thought; the relief coursing through him. He reached out, clasped Lenny on the shoulder, a compliment of praise towards the younger for his quick thinking. He encouraged him to keep going, to follow the rest. Sadie had taken the lead, clearing yet another gap, skirting around a rooftop and disappearing from view. The others, close on her heels.

Lenny was off in the next moment, following the path with ease. Arthur was on his tail, barely a few paces behind, scanning adjacent rooftops for any sign of trouble. Whistles and sirens echoing around them, shouts of confusion from below, angry commands and the frantic pound of boots on pavement; they’d managed to shake the law, at least for now. 

Arthur slowed, overcome with the need to check on Charles as he cleared the gap. The man made it with ease- of course he did- but something awful and nauseous played on his face. Arthur followed Charles’s horrified stare and hurried gesture, whirling on his heels just in time to catch a glimpse of two lawmen emerging ahead. Attempting to cut them off.

He heard the gunshot before he could draw his weapon and answer in return. Both lawmen were dead the next instant. His prowess with a gun showing just then.

He'd been quick.

  
Not quick enough; the understanding slow to sink in, mind numb and washed in denial as he watched Lenny fall. The kid hitting the ground hard. A new fear, racing through him.

Because Lenny wasn't getting back up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy morning all.
> 
> I have a wicked headache this morning and cannot think clearly, so hopefully this chapter isn't too bad off. Although, I do know that I am a tad bit mean leaving it like this...
> 
> :)


	30. Lenny

He'd forgotten, for a moment, how to breathe. His heart heavy; caught up in his throat. Limbs heavy, mind reeling. It wasn't right. It _wasn't_.

They had been making progress. They had been putting distance between them and the law. It had, for a moment, felt as though they were going to make it.

And now...

Arthur came to a stop, falling to his knees near the prone form. Disbelief welled up inside of him as he reached out; shaky hands, grasping an arm. Turning him over.

The sharp intake of air that was more hiss than groan was music to his ears. Relief, however small, flooded him. Lenny's face was pinched tight in pain, a hand pressed to his gut in attempt to stem the blood that was gushing forth. That momentary relief faded back into a muted panic.

“Shit,” Arthur cursed, moving, already working to pull free his jacket. He moved the kid's hands aside, ignoring the feeble protesting that came forth. Arthur felt something sour in his throat as he wrapped the fabric about his midsection, tying it off in a makeshift bandage. Feeling sympathetic at the wince that followed.

“You're gonna be okay, kid,” he reassured him. Perhaps just as much for himself as it was for the other. Bad as it looked, Arthur knew it could be worse. Could still be worse if they didn't move. Arthur muttering out an apology as he wrapped an arm around his shoulder, hefting him up.

Charles reached them in the next moment, nearly forcing him aside. The man was gruff and demanding. A stern look on his face as he all but took Lenny from his arms.

“I got him,” he said, his voice surprisingly steady, “cover us.”

Said in such a way that Arthur couldn’t argue. He knew Charles was better fit to handle him. Though he was reluctant to admit it, these past weeks had not been kind to Arthur. He was only a fraction as formidable as he once was. It wasn't only his leg that was bothering him. He'd lost weight, lost muscle – he'd could drag Lenny if given no other choice, but he knew deep down he'd be better off providing cover.

He was still a good shot despite all that had happened. He relented, watching as Charles hefted his weight with ease. The pair of them clearing the gap, and scrambling quickly after the others. Arthur watched them, leave his blood boiling now; trepidation turning towards anger. A rage settling in his bones, a driving need to put them all down.

The damn fools; shooting down a kid.

Bloodthirsty demons, the lot of them. And those demons were about to meet the devil himself, if Arthur had any say. A silent threat that was delivered on; shooting down a few more of the fools who were attempting to clamber their way up to the rooftop.

  
The chaos on the streets was winding down. Noises scattered, all spread out. A sharp demand of _find them_ echoing in his ears. Arthur realizing just then that they had a few scarce moments of respite. That the might actually have a chance. 

He took a few steps back, eyes sweeping his surroundings, searching for any stragglers. A feeling of elation surging through him when there were none.

He needed to move. Doubtful there'd be any better chance.

Arthur turned, drawing a breath and clearing the last gap with ease. He sprinted across the roof, following the path the others had taken. Rounding the corner he could just see them. The last few of them clambering through a window, disappearing inside the building. Charles had caught up with them, and watched as they worked to get Lenny through.

Lenny...

His throat was once again tight. A curse berating him, echoing in his mind. What a damn fool he was; looking behind him when he  _should_ have been looking forward. Had he been, then maybe Lenny wouldn't be-

He wasn't dying.

The thought firm and forceful. He wouldn't-Arthur would see to that. How, he wasn't quite sure. But he'd do whatever it took to get him through this. They hadn't gotten this far to lose him now. That determination spurring him on. He was the last to reach the open window, ducking inside.

John was there, waiting for him. The man thrusting a beam over the partially opened widow the moment he had cleared it. A quiet  _follow me_ whispered, the man waving his hand as though words alone weren't enough. 

This place, an abandoned apartment complex by the looks of it, was barren and in partial shambles. Most of the rooms boarded up and locked tight; they could easily break in if they so desired, but chances were the law would be looking. And unexpected damage would no doubt catch their eye. All but welcoming them in. They'd be trapped with their backs against the wall, no place to go, and not nearly enough bullets to fend them off.

Still, they needed someplace to lie low for a few hours. They couldn't wait in the empty halls, and slipping out the city when there was this much chaos would not bode them well. Arthur wondered if they would even have a choice. Lenny _needed_ help, and they-well the rest of them surely wouldn't be able to hunker down here in the midst of this godforsaken place forever.

They turned the corner, greeted by a single door that was ajar. Sadie beckoned them in, stepping to one side. He blinked, taking in the surroundings. Watching as daylight streamed in through the partially blocked windows. Dust scattered up around them as they all moved in.

The closing of the door launched them into a falsehood of security. He felt the smallest glimmer of safety, but he knew that there'd be no protection if the law came across them. The room was barren; there was nowhere to hide. Nowhere to go. Even so, he could feel the relief flood the room. Almost tangible. A weight lifted off all their shoulders.

Only to return a moment later. The heaviness come crashing back down as he heard Lenny whimper. He watched as Charles ease him to the ground.

Arthur found himself fixed to the spot. A thousand thoughts swirling in his mind. Unsure of what to do, then chastising himself because he  _knew_ what had to be done. 

He forced himself to move.

His weapon was dropped near his feet as he knelt. The knife pulled free instead, cutting away the sodden material.

“There's no exit wound,” Charles muttered quietly, breath hot against his ear.

Said as though he didn't know. He had seen that the moment he had laid hands on the other, back on the rooftop. His front had been bloodied, but nothing of the sort had coated his back. A grim realization, knowing the bullet was still in him. Knowing they had to dig it free. Knowing they were in no way prepared for it either.

“Any one of you fools got some liquor?” he choked out. Hopeful, perhaps foolishly so. Seems the lot of them had gotten all decked up for this job; dressed to the hills-all decked out in suits and finery that surely cost a gem to begin with. A lot of planning had gone into this apparently. Those sort of plans usually didn't involve drink, he knew.

Course-he shouldn't have been surprised to see Bill fish a flask out. The man always seemed prepared for celebratory acts. The container was wordlessly passed to him, Arthur made quick work in uncorking it, dumping it over the open wound.

“Damn, that hurts-” Lenny hissed through clenched teeth. His eyes were closed against the pain, and Arthur didn't miss how Charles took up his hand, giving him something to hold to. He'd need that soon enough.

“Right,” he breathed, struggling to find words. He wasn't like Dutch, able to craft heartfelt speeches. Nor was he like Hosea, whose words were warm; full of comfort. Rather his were gruff. Short and to the point. But there none-the-less. “Now this ain't gonna be pretty, but I'll be quick; promise.”

“You know what you're doing?” Lenny nearly whimpered. He was trying to be strong, but damn-the look on his face was something pitiful. His youth all but apparent here.

“Sure-” he tried to sound confident. “Ain't the first bullet I've dug out; had plenty of practice on Marston, so don't you worry none.”

He ignored the pointed look from John, though the man didn't say anything to defend himself. He stood near the window, watching; no doubt attempting to take in the situation around them. Truth was-John had a habit for trouble. The man always getting into one situation after another not long after Dutch had brought him back to camp. He been shot-hell, Arthur had lost track of the times-though it _had_ given him plenty of practice.

Not to mention the times he'd dug out his own bullets.

It came with the life; a truth that Lenny was soon to find out. To give him credit, the kid hardly made a sound other than a sharp hiss as the blade went in, though his grip on Charles did tighten. Arthur pressed one hand against his side, kneeling down on his legs to keep him still. He worked quick, methodically, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the wound and not on his face. To ignore the pain that was all but wrought across his features.

The tip of the knife slowly carving in, blood coming faster after the recent staunching. Staining his hands, the floorboards below them. He didn't slow. Didn't rush either; kept it steady as it cut through skin and tissue, searching. The tip hitting something hard. Feeling it move.

“Found it,” Arthur breathed, reassuring him. “You're doing good, kid. Just hol' on a moment.”

He turned the knife. Brought it back up towards him. The bullet, so small and meager, clattered to the floor below. Arthur moved quick, dousing the wound in more gin, hastily pressing the jacket against the fresh blood. He could feel Lenny shaking under him, the hitch in his chest betraying how much pain he was in; though he was doing a mighty fine job of hiding it.

“Done good, kid,” he breathed. “Real good. You gonna be just fine, you hear?”

“You think that's gonna hold?” Bill wondered, watching from across the room. “Shit, Morgan, he needs help.”

“Is that so?” he raised an eyebrow in response, “you reckon we just take him on down to the doctor's now? Get him all fixed up before the law hangs us?”

“Well, what _do_ you suggest?” Bill growled, “He's gonna _fuckin_ die if we don't do anything.”

“Ain't no one dying,” Arthur snapped.

“Yeah?” the man scoffed, “they got us cornered-just a matter of time before they find us. Hell they already got Micah-for all we know, they done shot his ass already.”

“Oh please,” Arthur drawled, rolling his eyes. “I'm sure Micah's just _fine_. He's probably having a good laugh over this with all his pals.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You think it’s some kinda coincidence? Y’all barely make a sound and there's a damn army of Pinkertons, seemingly out of nowhere, waiting for you right around the corner?”

“What are you going on 'bout, Arthur?” Sadie wondered quietly. She was watching him from the corner, keen eyes studying him. Out of everyone, she was perhaps the first to start catching on. Unsurprising, seeing how quickly she had been set upon by the agents. Surely she had drawn her own conclusions.

He drew in a breath, wavering on the threshold of truth. Feeling that proverbial dam break, the flood of words coming out. “Micah's been talking-for a while now, I reckon.”

There was a beat of silence, the tension thick in the room. A few stunted gasps, and he watched as several expressions hardened. Arthur wondered if what he had just done was wise, given the fact he was only just reunited. The happenings of the recent past all to familiar among them all.

“That ain't-” Bill shook his head, swearing. “No one's talking, and if they was-shit it could have been anyone. Hell, it could have been you!”

“Me?” Arthur moved to his feet, an angry snarl on his lips. “Have you lost your goddamn mind?”  
  


“We already know you was running with Colm,” the man spat out, shuffling back a few steps. A sheen of sweat on his forehead; a slight indication of fear brewing within in.

“I already done told you I wasn't,” he hissed.

“Then where _was_ you?” Bill took another step back. “Gone all those weeks-like Dutch said, you ain't never around-”  
  
“Where was I?” he snarled, “Where the _hell_ was you when I was being goddamned tortured? You go off, get caught by them bounty hunters and Javier and I come save your ass-but when it's me all strung up and beaten I don't see a lick of _any_ of you fools. Nah-I get myself out of that mess, nearly dead and by the time I manage to drag my sorry ass back to you folk I get chased out and nearly gunned down. And you want to know where _I've_ been? You goddamn lunatics.”

More came out than he intended; but he could no longer keep his emotions at bay. The anger festering there had manifested, had spread tenfold-all the shit he had done, and here they were still ready and eager to lay the blame in his lap. He didn't regret the words that poured forth; if anything, he regretted taking so long to say them in the first place.

“You ain't being fair, Arthur,” John cut in, only reinforcing his wrath.

“ _I_ ain't being fair?”

The funny thing about fairness was that it hardly ever was. Compromises made and often one fool would suffer more than the other. As had he all these past years, burdened with more responsibility than the others simply because it was expected. An expectation he had taken serious, only to see his efforts flounder instead of flourish.

John didn't seem put off by his anger; yet why would he be? The man had grown up alongside him, had learned to take his petty grievances with a grain of salt. If anything, Marston could bite back; heavens knew he had before. They had gotten in plenty of scuffles growing up, and John was hardly ever cowed despite the difference in their ages. Even now the man held a frown, watching him.

“It ain't like it could be helped,” John spat out. “Shit happened-”

“Oh yeah, for sure,” Arthur rolled his eyes. “Shit surely did happen; I've been running into all the shit you done left behind these past few weeks. You fools leaving a trail so wide you ain't even _need_ a rat; you done ratted yourself out. And you walked right into this mess-these fools I can forgive,” he waved a hand towards the others, “But you, of all people, should have known better-even with half a working brain.”

To that, John straightened, an indignant look on his face. Like he was ready to spit out a retort, but Arthur beat him to it, turning towards the rest of the group.

“Hell, all of you should of: why the hell you pulling this job on your own? Lost your damn minds, all of you.”

“Wasn't supposed to be on our own,” Bill grumbled, “Micah said Dutch was meeting us, told us the job was going down today-”

“Since when do you take orders from the likes of Micah?” Arthur cut him off.

He faltered, the silence an uncomfortable admittance of a truth he perhaps didn't want to know. He hadn't been blind the fact on how Micah had cozied up to Dutch ever since Blackwater. Hissing quiet nothings into the man's ear. Arthur, for the most part, had turned a blind eye to it. Had figured that Dutch was smart enough to see through his ruse. Perhaps his first mistake; his second was not running Micah through the first chance he had.

“Since Dutch wern't here,” the man muttered quietly; a weak defense.

“And you don't find that the least bit suspicious?”

Bill watched him for a moment, turning away with a scowl. “Well, what was we supposed to do?” he wondered. A hint of a challenge in his voice.

“How about not rob the one goddamn bank in the middle of a state capital?”

“Oh, don't tell me that you wouldn't-”

“Course I wouldn't,” Arthur snarled. “I ain't got a death wish-”

“Enough!”

Charles-who normally was soft spoken and quiet- nearly roared.

The man had taken his place in tending to Lenny, but now he moved. Stepping away from the kid and in between the two of them. Separating them. There was a dark glower adorning his face as he whipped his head between the two. His voice, dropping into a low hiss after. “Like it or not, we're all in this together.”

Arthur wanted to spit out a retort. His jaw opening and closing, mouth agape as though ready to so. Clamped shut the next moment as he turned away, fuming. Anger prickling under his skin as he pointedly marched off, away from the others. As though the apartment graced them with that much room; he let out a huff, leaning against the wall, peering outside through the small sliver of unblemished window.

Charles was right, he knew. A fact he didn't much care to indulge in. Regardless of how things came to be, what mattered now was the present. The potential future; one that was grim in lieu of the brief respite they had found. The apartment their prison as much as their haven.

They were safe for now, he knew.

But how long would that safety remain?  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't think I'd kill Lenny off that easy, do you? 
> 
> Granted, none of them are in a good situation at the moment. Arthurs back with them, but they really aren't on amicable terms. There's a lot left to discuss yet. I'm sure we'll hear more soon :)
> 
> Have a lovely day all!


	31. John

He could see them from the window.

Scores of guards that were sweeping the streets. Shadows like ants crawling over the cobblestone, pushing inside stores, guns drawn and ready to fire the moment they caught wind of them. Their chaotic movements only bolstered his belief of their uncertainty. That they had slipped the detection of the law; the agents only searching through desperation and desperation alone.

Eventually they'd be found.

A truth that sat ill with them. Perhaps that would happen in the next few moments; maybe a few hours from now. All of the shot down – if they were lucky. That or taken in, set to hang. A slower, more gruesome fate. Thoughts he chased away, swallowing as John came up near him. The man peering over his shoulder, watching out the window.

“Think we're safe here?”

“For now,” he mused quietly, refusing to share those dark and brooding thoughts. It'd serve none of them well if he was to rile them all up. The man let out a hum, as though agreeing. An uncomfortable silence creeping up between them. John letting out a sigh just then.

“Arthur, I-” he fumbled for the words, forcing them out suddenly. “I ain't ever believe that about you. About you running with Colm. I just want you to know that I have your back.”

“Oh?” he wondered, raising an eyebrow as he turned towards him. “Jus' like you had my back when these fools done run me out of camp?”

“I was taking care of Jack,” he frowned in response, defensive.

“You was, was you?” Arthur couldn't help the scoff that broke free. “Was you also taking care of him when he was kidnapped?”

“I-” he started, only to stop. Mouth open and closing as he fought for words. “How'd you hear about that?”

“Already told you; been running into all your messes these past few weeks. You fools can't keep yourselves out of trouble for two goddamn minutes.”

“Ain't like we wanted any of this to happen,” the man sulked. “Everything went to shit after you disappeared.”

“Right,” he drawled, bitter still. “I really shouda thought of how my getting' kidnapped and tortured coulda effected you all.”

“We _did_ look for you, Arthur,” John pressed, unbothered by the sarcasm. There was something deep in his voice, as though he was desperate for the other to believe him. “Spent a few days searching, but we found nothin'-killed a score of O'Driscolls too. They all swore they heard nothing. Weren't like we wanted to just give in-but shit, Arthur-the rest of us, we was in a bad way.”

“Sure you was,” he mumbled-though unheard apparently as the man continued his ramble.

“We had all that mess in Rhodes, with Sean dead and then the Braithwaites-”

“Dead?” he turned to him, incredulous.

His heart skipping a beat as he took that new information in. Perhaps realizing just then that they were one member short. The Irish bastard nowhere to be seen; he hadn't been at camp, and surely was not among the lot of them now. Gross understanding sinking into him-his thoughts quickening away before he could grasp them.

“Damn Grays set us up. He didn't even have a chance,” John admitted quietly. “Got Sean before we even realized, and the Braithwaites took Jack while our backs were turned. As if that weren't quite bad enough, Pinkertons showed up to camp the next day. We...we got sloppy, I guess. They walked right into camp; ain't even sure how they found us so quick.”

“-give you one guess,” he breathed, mind still reeling. A sickly, sad feeling, weighing in his gut. The damn fool was irritating for sure. Didn't mean he didn't like the poor kid. He sucked in a breath, listening as John went on.

“Lucky us, Lenny remembered Shady Belle from when the you two stormed the place. We figured it was best to be close to the city, made it easier to go grab Jack.”

“Lucky…” Arthur echoed dryly. He turned to him, watching his face, “He… he okay? They… do anything to him?”

Arthur knew all too well what men like that did to boys. What _could_ have happened to Jack. He chose not to elaborate, but he was certain John knew it too.

“Guess so,” John shrugged, “Didn’t have a mark on him. Hell, he was cleaner than when we saw him last.”

“Ain't got to be actual wounds to hurt,” Arthur reminded him, voice dark. With all that shit the kid had been through it wouldn't be a surprise if he was all sorts of disjointed.

“Right…” John sighed, “He… he seems fine. Seems to think it was some big adventure. Hell, he is still prattling on about words he learned and things he ate… I’ll tell you what though, Abigail seemed ready to have me dismembered with Jack goin’ on like he was… I don’t…I hope she's alright.”

“She's fine,” Arthur reassured him. “Came across her while I was riding in; sent her back to camp. Grimshaw is packing the place up, moving camp out.”

“Where?”

“Don' know,” he shrugged. “Weren't like we had the time to talk much. What with everything going on. Said she'd let us know somehow.”

“She’s… She’s been in some kind of state,” John shook his head, “Dutch uh… he left, few days back-after a job. Didn’t say a word to nobody and Hosea… shit, he left that same day the O’Driscolls came and you—“ John paused, staring at him with something indecipherable in his eyes, “Arthur, I ain’t never seen them fight the way they did. I mean— you remember how they used to get, way back when? This was worse. This… Without you around, things just been falling apart, and I really thought they was about to kill each other.”

To that he said nothing, caught in all those words just said. Mind drifting back to what Hosea had told him that night, on his desires to gun the man down right then and there. Desires he himself had followed through on. He felt something, like guilt, festering inside of him, though it was unable to hold.

A beat of silence drew itself out between them. Stunted and wrong; uncomfortable. Then John shifted, voice low-as though finishing a thought he held onto but was hesitant to say.

“Dutch wouldn’t tell me why, though. I asked, but he damn near lost it, started yelling about loyalty-did everything he could to avoid the question.”

So Dutch hadn’t told them.

He wasn’t exactly surprised by that; if anything, he would have been surprised if he _had_. Dutch didn’t admit when he’d done wrong. Confessions weren’t his forte and apologies even less so. Any admissions you could wrench out of the man were so brutally twisted and mangled that no matter what he had done he was painted as the victor. Dutch could do no wrong— he made sure of it.

Him and his damn philosophies….

Why he ever thought this might be any different, Arthur wasn’t sure. He wanted to let it spill out though, more than anything in that moment, what the fight had been about. That thought festering, burning in him like an ill-extinguished ember. He wanted him to know, all of them, to feel in some small way the betrayal and anger he felt. To understand _exactly_ what kind of man Dutch was. 

But he wouldn't.

Couldn't.

New emotions creeping in the more he thought of it. Anger, sure. Anger had been a constant companion since learning of Dutch’s deception. Besides that though… something small. Worse. Sickly, and heavy, and slimy all at once. Nauseating. His cheeks burned, his breath caught, and Arthur found himself awash in a terrible realization.

He was ashamed.

Ashamed of Dutch.

Ashamed for Dutch; ashamed that the man had fallen so far, that he’d become something so wretched, so ghastly. Ashamed of himself for thinking all his life that Dutch was the best man he’d ever known. Ashamed for admiring someone capable of such flagrant treachery. Ashamed that he had once wished above all else to become like him someday.

Now, the mere idea of it sickened him further. He swallowed back that thick bile, reaching up with a hand to push his hat back. Wanting to say something; needing to cast away those uncomforting thoughts.

“Dutch-he's up north,” was all he managed to mutter. A bit of truth, though he couldn't bring himself to elaborate. Even so, it caught John's interest, the man watching him.

“You seen him? Ain't heard from him in days..”

“Somethin' like that,” he shrugged his shoulders, unwilling to betray more. If he was unwilling to divulge Dutch's wrongdoings, he sure as hell wasn't about to admit his own. No way they'd understand, not without knowing the truth-hell, even if they did know, Arthur wasn't sure they'd accept it.

“Maybe he went out lookin' for Hosea, you reckon?”

The mention of the man clutched at his heart; Arthur forgetting how to breathe momentarily. His words spoken, incredibly soft, almost sourly.

“Hosea got picked up by Pinkertons.”

If he thought the mention of Dutch had caught John's attention, the mention of Hosea surely did that ten times over. The man starting, pure blatant shock on his face as straightened.

“What?”

His voice nearly a whisper. Accompanied by other mutters of disbelief that were cascading across the room. Their conversation, apparently not as private as he thought, a terse hush falling over all of them. Arthur dropped his gaze, unable to look at any of them, but even so he could see Charles move out of the corner of his eye, leaving Lenny's side as he came near.

“He alive?”

The man ever prudent; finding words where John had failed. The youngest of them, his eyes downcast and full of something-disbelief perhaps. Hosea, he knew, meant just as much to John as he did him. The closest thing to a father either of the had.

“For now,” Arthur choked out, damning his emotions. Wanting to chase them away, to be rid of them all. He worked a hand across his face, feigning exhaustion in favor of spiraling out of control. His voice, wholly unconvincing as he continued. “I got him somewhere safe-but he ain't looking so well. Bastards worked him over pretty good-leg's busted,among other things.”

“Jesus,” John swore, his own grief discernible. Face crestfallen as he turned away, surely overcome by the surge of emotions. Arthur wasn't sure of what to say, of what he could say, his own thoughts still too tangled to make much sense of it all.

“He...he's gonna be okay,” John finally managed to break the silence that had settled between them. His words sounding more like a question than a conviction. “Get ourselves out of this mess-get him the best care we can find...we got the money.”

The last part, said as an afterthought it seemed. As though he had just remembered something important. Arthur felt himself start, his gaze narrowing as he watched him, mind ablaze with details. All the shit that had gone on, money was perhaps the least of their concern, but as always it was something he couldn't ignore. Arthur feeling something similar to desire racing through him as he looked up sharply. His breath hardly a whisper in his chest.

“The money?” he wheezed, “'s the take good?”

“Real good,” John confirmed, gesturing towards Bill, the man returning their glance with a scowl. Saddle bags strewn out between him and Javier, Arthur noticing just then the odd shapes, the lumps piled there. He had to fight the urge to race that way, to lay his hands on the temptation. Fingers curling against his flesh instead, nails digging in as he turned away.

Greed was what had gotten them here in the first place. The fools throwing away all caution in favor of earning quick change. Their weight in gold, a promise to speed them all away and disappear into the wind. One final score-what Dutch had always gone on about, a promise of a new life. Of leaving this all behind.

Yet none of it would mean anything if they couldn't get out of here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah so, we finally learn about Sean.
> 
> I know several of you have asked, and it took a LONG time to get here - but honestly I don't think Arthur would have found out on his own otherwise. Poor Sean was still fated to die in Rhodes it seems. 
> 
> As for the rest of them-
> 
> We'll have to see how they get out of this predicament....
> 
> See you on Friday!


	32. Sacrafice

Hours passed, dreadfully slow. All of them consumed in silence, their conversation fading as the day waned. The sunset, what little he could see, was glorious-mockingly so. A hue of colors amalgamating together, painting the streets in vibrant tones. A breath of beauty they could see, but not quite hold, nor relish in given their situation.

The city had grown quiet.

The rancorous din that had nearly drowned them out earlier had faded. Now it was silent, unnervingly so. A sure indication the city was still locked down. Folks sequestered away for their own safety. For their _protection_. The irony of it all. They'd be a hell of a lot safer if the lot of them were gone, rather than trapped here. Waiting....

He could still see patrol groups ambling by. Arthur spying groups of them wandering along, though languorously so. As though they were keeping up appearances, but not really looking. They had to be exhausted.

He knew he was. Adrenaline long faded into weariness, having to fight the fatigue that was settling in his bones. Opting to keep watch despite the offer to sleep. He was far to jittery for that, though the option was not waved by others. Each of them slumbering at times, grasping whatever moments they could.

Charles had taken up a mantle next to Lenny, a watchful eye on him while the kid slept. The bleeding they had gotten under control, but even so his face was drawn. Pain etched into his features even while he slept. There wasn't much they were able to do about that. Not until they left this dismal place.

Bill had pointedly avoided him since their latest spat, something he was all too grateful for, though Javier had come shuffling up to him about an hour ago, muttering a weak apology for all that had transpired. Much as he hadn't wanted to, Arthur had grudgingly forgiven him. Trying to remind himself that out of the group, Javier had been the only one to hold back.

It was about all that was said, voices dying down as time flitted by. Now those colors faded, street lamps glowing in a fog that had slowly crept in. A promising sign, something that gave him a twinge of hope. It would only improve their chances, he was sure.

He cleared his throat, straightening as he pulled away the from window. “Right then-” voice fading, words faltering as he tried to grasp them. This was not something he was used to; rallying the others, spinning false hopes. Wishing, for one desperate moment, that Dutch was here. Dutch would have known what to say-what to do.

Surprisingly, it was John who stepped in. The man filling in that broken gap with words of his own.

“You got a plan?”

The man had hardly left his side-though he had fallen into quietude some time ago, giving him the much needed respite to try and get his thoughts in order. Not enough time, apparently; they were still loose and slippery-incomplete. He turned towards the rest of the group just then, finding several of them awake, watching. Waiting. All of them lost and confused, unsure of what to do.

He let out a sigh, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Reckon we oughta move here soon. Find our way out when it's dark.”

“Where we gonna go?” John wondered. The question hanging in the air. A question he didn't have an answer for-away from the city for sure, but after? There was no telling where Grimshaw may have taken everyone. There'd be nothing at Shady Belle for them, and it wasn't really an option to begin with – Micah would happily tote the law there, deliver them all with a bow tied up neat. Rhodes, as well, was out of the question; hell any town was, seeing all trouble they had done stirred up.

Best bet was to lay low, find somewhere off the beaten path. The idea there, faint, lingering. A shiver traveling down his spine as he thought it over. Much as he hated it, it might be just what they needed. He couldn't say for sure, but what he did know was that they had to move, and move quick if any of them wanted to get out of here alive.

“I reckon we split up,” he said finally, mulling over his thoughts. “Go our different ways; we can regroup by the river, outside of Lagras. We'll have all them gators to deal with, some nightfolk at worst-but I don't think Pinkertons will be so willing to follow us into the swamps.”

Not many people _were_ keen on that idea. Hell, he'd talk to the locals there before, the folk all but confirming they hardly ever got visitors. Most folk did well to avoid the marshy land, the reaches of the law rarely stretching out that far.

“Split up?” Bill questions, pushing to his feet, “Are you out of your goddamned _mind_? We’ll be sitting ducks!”

Arthur huffed in frustration, “Calm down, I know what I’m doing! We split up, we draw less attention.”

They always split up after a job; sometimes going off in pairs, sometimes alone. It was easier to confuse the law that way. This was no different. One lonely man out on the trail was less noticeable, less of a threat, than a group of them. Bill was right- a single man was more easily caught by the law, for sure, but that counted on the assumption that the law was looking for a single man. In this case, they were looking for a group; the sole reason why they couldn't venture out together. They'd have to go, have to hope they could all make it.

Even then, one man caught can be sprung from jail within a day. If all of them were caught, or killed, there’d be no hope.

And maybe the law might chase their own tail a bit, think them just another patrol. Whatever the justification, Arthur felt as though this was their only choice. He held Bill's gaze, watching the man open and close his mouth, as though attempting to spring an argument forward. Though when none came he clamped it shut, turning away, quiet. Arthur took the opportunity to look at the rest of them. Gauging their reactions. Confident to see no other qualms.

It was decided then.

It certainly hadn’t been an easy debate for any of them, but one they needed to have. The hard choices were made: Charles would stay with Lenny, and Javier would offer them cover. A measure of defense, just in case. John and Bill would follow at a distance, in case any of the first group needed to fall back or if they needed backup.

Arthur and Sadie were going to take up the rear. They’d leave a fair span behind the rest; enough to pull the attention of any straggling lawmen away from the others, if need be. Even with everything planned and discussed, they waited. Hesitant. Unwilling. None of them feeling capable of taking the first step towards the inevitable.

  
There was a lot that could go wrong. They’d discussed that too, but they didn’t have to. Everyone was well aware of the precarious situation they’d found themselves in. Some quietly made plans with others—messages to deliver if something should go awry, actions to take on their behalf if something should happen, the kind of morbid planning only done in hushed whispers.

Time moved slowly, the light fading until the streets were shrouded in inky darkness.

Then they moved.

They roused Lenny from his restless sleep, the kid weak and still overcome with pain, even as Charles shouldered his weight. He kept his discomfort quiet though, ever the soldier. Javier checked in one final time, reassuring that everyone knew the plan, before taking the first steps out of that cramped room. Charles and Lenny followed. The rest waited, fear caught in their throat, for something. Anything. A sign that things had gone wrong, that they’d been caught or walked into a trap, but none came.

Arthur hated this feeling. This anxiety. Every edging second of silence was precious. He counted each one until some slight hint of confidence returned to him. Finally he ushered Bill and John out as well, again waiting. Again listening. They’d follow the same path, the same routine.

Minutes drifted by painfully before he nudged Sadie out as well, following behind, offering one final glance over the apartment. He was steps behind her as they ventured out, carefully picking their way down the stairs.

The air of Saint Denis was thick, still drowned out in fog. An eerie glow from the lampposts marking the streets. He could see faint shapes disappearing into the alleys, but none seemed any the wiser. Feeling a bit of hope surging, feeling as though they were making progress. His breath, heavy in his chest as he bolted across the street, hair on the back of his neck prickling. Feeling all too much like he had been seen.

But there were nothing; no shouts, no alarms, no indication they had been spotted. Sadie pressing flat against the wall, Arthur following suit. A quiet glance shared between them, a nod of the head before they moved on. Pushing their way forward, keeping close the walls. Working their way around the corner.

Coming to a pause. Arthur's hand falling on her shoulder, drawing her back into the shadows as a group of lawmen went by. Idle conversation reaching their ears, guns resting easily in their hands. Entirely unaware that the very folk they were looking for were currently flitting about the streets at this very moment, mere steps away.

His heart was pounding. Reverberating off his ribs, his breaths tight in his chest as they waited. Too conspicuous in these eerily empty streets. Too visible. They’d surely be spotted at any moment.

Sadie clicked her tongue. Arthur chased away those thoughts, nervous hands reaching up to fiddle with his hat. Arm wiping away the sweat collecting just under the rim.

They kept moving. Pushing ever north. Each beat of silence emboldening them. Dissolving fear. They had traversed a few blocks now. Pausing at each street corner, taking care of their surroundings. Ahead, the outline of the cemetery, a faint, luminous glow. Beyond that, he knew, were the fields. Then swamps. Safety. He almost laughed at the thought of considering the swamps a safe haven, but they surely would find shelter there. Before then, though, an empty expanse. There would be no hiding- they'd have to run and run hard.

Assuming they made it that far. A worry for later. Feet heavy against cobblestone, sounding far too loud in the quiet of the night. Crouched low and shuffling, edging their way around the desolate graveyard. The openness of the land before them was daunting.

“You go on,” he whispered, giving her a nudge. “I'll cover you.”

“And who's gonna cover you?” she hissed back.

Sadie never did like taking orders; she had fought and bit back at every _suggestion_ Dutch or the others had made. Had just nearly taken Pearson on when the man had needled her wrong. Arthur the only fool who had indulged her whims. Seems like she had grown in the time he was gone, had become more aggressive. More determined. She was stubborn and strong willed in just the way that tended to drive Arthur up the wall. He was usually happy to indulge her though, fool that he was, recognizing that same bullheaded will in himself. And maybe, just maybe, it was entertaining as hell to watch her go toe to toe with the others.

Still, he really did wish she’d listen this time.

“If you make it, I figure I ain’t gonna need cover! We ain’t got time to argue, just get!”

  
She didn’t like that answer, he could tell, but her lips stayed pursed tight. He nudged her again, “Go on, now! Keep your head down.”

It took a second for her to seem convinced, and another for her to get on her way. Arthur was thankful, just then, that she’d dressed in muted tones, as opposed to the flashy colors she seemed to prefer. The blues and browns she donned blended easily into the night as she scurried across fields, so much so that even Arthur could hardly keep track of her.

He held his breath, waiting. Listening. The night remained quiet, though, and still as death.

  
Maybe luck was on their side for once. Yet that hope fled away in the next moment. Gunfire tearing down the street, sharp whistles and calls tearing through the tranquility of the night. Arthur starting, gun tight in his hands as he searched frantically for the source. 

Not here.

Further in the city.

A curse muttered as he moved. One of the others must have been spotted. Gunfire ripe and drawing more attention. Scattered shapes in the fog as he ran. Hoping he'd be overlooked as an adversary, considered an associate instead. Tailing the few lawmen he'd caught up to, doing his best to keep his distance while still pressing forward.

What he planned on doing, he wasn't sure. There were but a handful of bullets left in his chamber, enough for a distraction, or a few well placed shots, but nowhere enough to handle this horde that converged. He could count a dozen, perhaps more. Unfavorable for sure, but he would be damned if he did nothing. Arthur came to a stop as the law called for their surrender, seeing them just then.

John and Bill.

Of course it would be them fools.

Pinned up against a wall, guns raised as they were slowly encroached upon. He could see the hesitation there, the consideration no doubt stewing in their minds. Arrested now they could be saved later. Shot down...not so much. He watched as John lowered his weapon, still gripped tight in his hold. Watched as the man nudged Bill to follow his suit. In a few, short moments, they'd be arrested.

He took the chance. The opportunity. His last bullets spent taking down the men who were the closest to the pair. Dropping them where they stood, Arthur hollering at them to move. Counting on the distraction to give them precious seconds-seconds they could use. All the better to see the rest of the lawmen flinch and turn his way.

“Ain't you got anything better to do, you damn fools,” he sneered, backing up a step. Nervous eyes watching as the pair fled. The group, realizing just then what was taking place. Several peeled off after the two men. The rest...the rest came for him.

Arthur turned and ran, leading the rest of them away. The alleyways his sanctuary, narrow and winding. His lungs burned, a stitch in his side he did his best to ignore. Teeth gritting as he jumped, hands grasping the brick wall as he hurdled himself over. Landing with a wince, stumbling a bit. Chastising himself, knowing he had to keep moving. The pain in his leg, flaring just then, making it all the worse.

He was limping now, cantering down the alleyway. Out into an open area adorned with tables-a cafe perhaps. He wasn't sure, wasn't about to stop and look. Arthur stumbled up the stairs, hands landing on a gated door. Swearing as it held fast, bolted down tight. He had no gun, no bullets to cut through the lock.

Echos bounced in the air around him, voices drawing near. His escape not as seamless as he had hoped. Arthur hopped over the railing, wincing once more as his leg buckled under him. Somehow he drew himself up. Somehow he was able to get himself to keep going. To push through the pain. Either suffer a little now-or be gunned down the moment they saw him. The choice was easy to make.

He dodged under and archway, moving towards another alley. Another escape. Swearing as his route was suddenly cut off, lawmen appearing from the other direction. He turned, stumbling back the way he came, breath tight in his chest.

Up another set of stairs, hidden behind a trellis of ivy. Skidding to a stop to see another dead end. Nothing more than row of doors, apartments sequestered away from the streets of the city. His hands fell to one, a rough shove in hopes it would give. The promise of sanctuary a mere breadth away. His heart still pounding in his ears-or perhaps those were the footsteps. Arthur pushing away from the door as they rounded the corner, limping back with his hands raised. There was a snarl on the man's face, shouting for his surrender.

“Alright,” he breathed, his voice nothing more than a whisper, the plead thin. “Alright-just don't shoot.”

“I ought to put a bullet right in your head,” the lawman cursed at him, drawing near. “I won't though-too easy for the likes of you. You'll hang, be sure of that.”

Of that, he was most certain. Knowing this was no regular courtyard row, no simple scuffle. He'd be lucky if that was all that happened. The fear residing in him, though he did his best to banish it. To chase it away as he was cuffed. Dragged roughly back out into the streets, all but marched back to the jail.

A thin whisper of hope in him, seeing that he was alone. The jail empty, the cold cell embracing him-relishing in that solitude.

Because it meant the other had made it. 

Long as they weren't shot dead-but Arthur reckoned he'd hear about it if they were. Instead he was met with gruff snarls and grumbles as he was left alone. Arthur letting out a sigh, sinking down onto the cot behind him. Unsure of what to do, knowing there was little he  _could_ do, other than wait. 

It wouldn't take long for the others to realize he was gone.

They would come back for him..wouldn't they?

The doubt, raw and fierce inside of him. Trying to convince himself that they would. But the truth of the matter was that they hadn't before; and they might not risk it again.

Coming back, after all, was surely suicide.

No...even if they did learn what happened, he doubted they would. They already held their doubts about him, and he knew their brief reunion had done little to remedy that.

In fact, they might consider this a solution to their problems.

Hadn't they done that once, already?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From bad to worse, huh?
> 
> Arthur's now in the hands of the law, but at least it sounds like the others made it! That's good, right?
> 
> I mean...they have no clue where camp is. No idea where Dutch or Hosea is at. Probably don't know what's happened to Arthur...
> 
> It's fine. I'm sure. 
> 
> It'll all be fine!
> 
> :)


	33. Ross

He’d been stuck in a lot of shitty places before.

Hell he was all too acquainted with steel bars given his tendency to cause trouble. Most of them were dank and moldy, some of them hot and stuffy, shit-he could even count Colm’s damn cellar as well, even though there were no bars. The dark and dismal place still ripe in his mind; unwelcoming. Yet even that didn't compare to this.

Saint Denis Jail, for all its supposed finery, was something else.

He'd been here, once or twice before, though never on this side. The entire reasoning for coming in the first place the result of whispers regarding lucrative bounties. And how he hated every minute he had been inside. All to happy to leave soon after, returning when-and only when-he had a bounty _to_ deliver. 

He hadn't failed to notice the layout the times he had gone inside. The openness of it all-too open. Bars rising from the floor, exposed. There was no hiding; no decency. He, and the other fools that had been stuffed into neighboring cages were entirely on display like goddamned animals. Some sort of perverted circus act if he didn't know any better.

There was no measure of safety; no wall to hide against, no way to keep the eyes of the law from picking a fool apart bit by bit. Hell, he couldn’t even manage a halfway decent nap to pass the time, something he desperately needed. Exhaustion wrought down to his very bones, leaving him jittered. Too afraid to try, what with the hungry way the lawmen eyed him, as if waiting for his guard to go down so they could strike. He knew what lawmen did to people like him; hell, what other lawmen in other states had done to him before. 

What they’d done to Hosea.

Hosea...

He swallowed, bitter regret coursing through him. He hadn't even said goodbye-the man harboring no clue to what had transpired. To the danger he had rushed into headlong without so much as a second thought. Hosea would be fretful and fearful over his absence. Lain up in that bed for weeks to come yet, before he had the strength to hobble out, trapped with a family that could barely utter a string of comprehensible words. By the time he managed, _if_ he even got that far, it'd be too late. 

The man would be left wondering, wandering-if he found the others, a faint possibility, he might just learn of his fate. Though the more common probability was the fact he'd be left to his own devices. What with Grimshaw moving the ladies, and the rest of the fools fleeing the city in scattered groups, it would be a miracle if  _any_ of them found one another again. 

Less of a probability was the notion of a rescue.

Arthur was no fool. He knew that there wouldn't be enough time; not nearly enough for them to pull together, to come to his aid -or if they would even try. The immediate wash of anxiety was all too familiar. He drew in a breath.

They weren’t coming.

Hell, he wasn't even sure if any of them realized he'd been caught. Not with all the chaos that had ensued. Arthur had caused a distraction, had led the law away from the others and straight back into the heart of the city. If he knew them well enough, which he did, then they would simply think that he had scrambled to safety on the other side. That he had been... _delayed._

It's what they thought with Colm.

The very reason they hadn't come then-though perhaps he was being unfair. Knowing they hadn't come to that belief on their own, influenced by superfluous words by none other than Dutch himself.

The man wasn't with them this time; wasn't there to convince them otherwise. Though he didn't need to be-coming back for him was suicide. Even the most foolish of fools could see that. It was a far greater risk than Colm and all his men. Deeper and darker depths of Hell would be waiting for them if they so much as tried. The city surely under scrutiny, the law no doubt expecting some sort of attempt given all the security.

A part of him was amused, seeing just how many men were keeping an eye on him. Another part, dismayed. He'd busted his way out of jail before; broken down waste heaps that were rusted over, busted locks that were easy to pick. Shit, there was the one time he had cajoled the guard over before busting his head open and helping himself to the keys.

Not like that was to happen here. Saint Denis' jail was stoutly built, a fortress perhaps only surpassed by Sisika itself. Not too mention he'd been stripped of anything of value before being thrown inside. Even if he had the means to pick the lock, there was no chance in doing so undetected, not with the openness of the cell-they'd be on him the moment he tried.

No-the only chance, _his_ only chance, rested in the hope the others would come. To pull off one last daring escape-they'd done it before. Years ago. John was fifteen, maybe sixteen- absolutely full to burst with piss and vinegar, completely hopped up on his own ego and absolutely unbearable. Always Dutch’s favorite, that one— even after he set the law on all of them

It wasn’t like he’d done it on purpose; he was stupid. That’s all Arthur could remember of it. But stupidity had gotten better men than them killed before, and it damn near got them all shot that time. They'd split up; gone separate ways to avoid getting caught. Hours later they’d all filtered back into camp— all of them except John. It didn’t take much time at all to figure out what had happened; it took even less time for Arthur to sneak into town and find out for certain that the little shit had been caught.

They were set to hang him the next morning— a fate neither Dutch nor Hosea were keen to see carried out. To that end, they took to planning, determined to bust the kid out that night, rather than wait til morning when something could actually be done. They spent hours plotting, ignoring Arthur’s insistence that John would be fine and his reminders that they’d all been arrested before and they’d all been set to hang once or twice. If anything, a nice night in a cold cell would be good for the boy.

‘ _It’ll put some hair on his chest_!’ Arthur had jested, though he had once again been ignored.

Somehow, Dutch managed to drum up an actual plan— or rather, a ludicrous idea that Arthur should _also_ get arrested. He had experience, after all, and had broken himself out of jail a few times; one well-hidden lock pick, and they’d all be gone within the hour. He suggested that Arthur harass a lawman, insult him or something, act a fool, douse himself in booze, whatever it took to get himself in cuffs. Once safely stowed away, he could keep John calm and collected— neither of which were terms that had ever in history been used to describe the kid— while Dutch and Hosea came up with a way to distract the deputies, get the jail empty, and give the boys a chance to make their escape unseen.

It was the stupidest goddamned plan Arthur had ever heard.

But it worked.

And after, after they had shared a good laugh. Even Arthur, who had been so stoutly against it had taken to a round of drink around the fire, toasting the fool. John was far too young to drink, though that hardly ever stopped him. Those memories, fleeting as they were, burning something sour inside him the longer he thought on it. How things had changed; not just the world around them, but they themselves as well.

Once, he'd expect a rescue if he landed behind bars.

He'd wait for Dutch to come sauntering in with an apology-or hell, the man had once blown a wall down when his charm had failed. Hosea was more practical, growing chummy with the law and drowning them in drink. A few of the other folk-they preferred to be brash, coming in with guns raised.

Once.

Not anymore.

Not this time.

It wouldn't happen.

He reminded himself of that again and again; they _weren’t_ coming. They couldn’t, honestly, and he wouldn’t want them to, and they weren’t. The truth sitting sickly sour on his tongue, his heart beating in his chest as he closed his eyes.

They weren't coming.

But he so wanted them to.

A vile selfishness blooming in his bones. Wanting it more than anything. A silent prayer whispered between his lips to an unknown God, wishing that they would be just foolish and lucky enough to pull it off. A dream that kept him occupied, that whittled away the time.

Morning had long come and gone. He'd been counting down the minutes, hat drawn low over his eyes at a faint illusion of privacy. The light of the sun slowly filtering in, a warm glow that seemed far too cheery for the dreary position he was in.

They'd promised him that he'd hang. A threat he knew all too well. A threat that had long been lorded over his head these past years. He'd grown thick skin, ignored it well enough-but being here had changed things. He'd be a fool to admit he didn't feel the prickle of fear inside him.

A fear he swallowed down as he heard his voice. One that was far too familiar for his liking. Faint discussions, talking to the sheriff; the man hadn't left the station, not since his capture. But he heard, well and true, the simple discussion that gave him a dash of hope. Hearing the disappointment in regards to the others slipping free. Faint promises filtering from Ross as he promised to find them. His voice growing louder as he drew near.

He didn't look up-least not until the man addressed him. Arthur peering out from under his hat, watching him stand just on the other side of the bars. The man looking a little more disheveled, a bit more unkempt than the previous time he'd seen him. No doubt a result of having spent the night scouring the city for the lot of them.

“I heard you were dead,” Ross said by way of introduction, “Seems like someone was ill informed. Shame.”

“Dangerous, listening to stories,” Arthur responded, undeniably bitter. It didn't take a large leap in logic to who had shared that erroneous detail with him.

“I suppose so,” the man returned. “Though I guess I can only expect so much from _feculence_ like you.”

“Well now, ain’t that a five-dollar word? Now surely you can’t expect a filthy, dumb ol’ outlaw like me to understand such fancy talk,” Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Let’s cut the shit, Ross. You come here just to insult me, or what?”

The curiosity was unbearable, though Arthur hid it well, wondering what the man was playing towards. Undoubtedly, he'd soon make the fated walk to the gallows, be forced to wear a California Collar-everything the man hoped for. They had him right where they wanted him. So what more was he wanting to gain, other than the satisfaction in gloating his win?

“Believe it or not, I came to thank you, actually— seeing as you done me a big favor.”

To that, he laughed dryly, sitting up. “And what might that be?”

“Putting Milton in the ground, of course,” Ross leaned against the bars. Perhaps a stupid action on his part; close enough for Arthur to reach through, to cause real damage if he so chose. A temptation he fought against, knowing he'd be gunned down the moment he tried. He hadn't failed to noticed the armed guards, just meters away.

But he could, if nothing else, strangle Ross before he died, and maybe that was worth something.

“Here I thought you boys was friends forever,” Arthur mused, hoping his droll comment had hidden the furthered confusion.

It surprised him. Thoroughly so- he _expected_ retribution for killing the man. Frankly he figured Ross had come to kill him himself. The murder of someone so important as Milton… well, lawmen never took too kindly to that. They tended to get vengeance. Torture, at very least. Yet another thing he had steeled himself for.

Still wouldn't change things. It was an action he'd repeat if given a second chance. Milton’s life— Arthur’s life— for Sadie’s? The only thinking he did was considering how many bullets to put in the man.

“He might have been my superior, but he was a pompous ass, if you don’t mind me speaking candidly. Always thought he was so high and mighty. You have no idea how long I've been itching to drive a bullet into his brain to shut him up, but something like that would have me fired and hanged in a day. ‘Course, now he’s been made a martyr— another man of the law, brutally slaughtered in the fight against disorder and anarchy. But with Milton gone, I'll let you take a guess at who they put in his place.”

“Oh, well congratulations are in order. You gonna get the drinks or should I? How long did it take them to decide that? Putting a fine man like you in charge?” he mulled sarcastically, “Why, I feel safer already.”

“Cut the crap, Morgan,” Ross shook his head, scowling. “I don't need patronizing from the likes you. I've come to offer you a deal.”

“Oh?” he feigned interested. There was nothing in this world the man could offer him. “This anything like the deal you cut with Micah? Use him til you get what you want, then put him out to pasture?”

“Mr. Bell has proved useful,” Ross confirmed, unsurprised by his knowledge, “Despite all his...intuition, the man has failed on the very thing he promised: delivering Van der Linde. We were led to believe he would be here; you have any idea how many resources we pulled in to take him down? Made all of us look like fools, even more so that the rest of those feckless scoundrels got away.”

They already appeared to be fools long before then, though Arthur wouldn't point that out. He crossed his arms over his knees, pretending to be uncaring.

“What a shame,” Arthur hummed, “Can’t have the law looking like _fools,_ now can we?”

“Where is he?”

Right to business, then. Arthur should’ve guessed this was about Dutch; it always was. The dogs nipping at his heels for long as he could remember. Coming close, but never quite enough to down the so desired prey. He could, without a moment's thought, give Ross what he was so desperate after. It'd take nothing more than a few words, a simple slip of the tongue, but he found his teeth clenched tight. Despite everything they’d been through, everything the man had put him through, something cold and defensive hardened in his gut.

“Dutch?” he asked, a too-wide smirk split across his face, “Why, I ain’t seen him in months.”

“Right now, those streets are filled with folk looking to see you swing,” Ross growled, “And they will.”

“And that's supposed to scare me?” he wondered, unfazed. The fear still there, but he refused to let it show. To let _him_ see.

“It’s supposed to motivate you. The final call is mine to make,” Ross clarified. “I can arrange it to ship you off to Sisika-spend a few months there, working off your debt to society, and good behavior will see you free in no time at all. We’ll send you off out west, and you’ll never see hide nor hair of this wretched place again. And all you have to do is bring us Van der Linde. Hell, you just gotta point us his way, and you get a clean slate.”

He was no fool-it was a generous offer. More than he could ever hope to bargain with; but the enticement fell of deaf ears. Despite the sweet whisperings that came from the man, Arthur knew it was all bluster. Knew that he'd be welcomed to live as long as he had purpose; soon as the purpose was gone, so he would be as well. That's how it went; how it always went.

And even if it wasn’t, he simply wasn’t the type to turn on his family. No matter what they had done.

“Tell me, Morgan,” Ross let out a sigh, at his prolonged silence. “Why is that you feel so inclined to offer him loyalty? Given all that's happened… I mean, way I hear it, that charlatan left you to die. You two have been together going on, what… twenty years? More? And he left you. Still, you can’t see past that silver tongue, can you?”

It chilled him; down to the very core. Something thick and sickly sitting on his tongue as he turned away. Yet more secrets shared by Micah, no doubt. The man was seemingly eager to offer up each and every detail he could get his slimy hands on, if only to prolong his own life.

He didn't like it. Here, an agent of the law knowing what Arthur hadn’t had the stomach to tell his closest friends. His own goddamned family. He’d been too ashamed; too anxious. That unsettled feeling grew into a throbbing ache, drowning him.

Something small wondered if maybe Ross had a point; Dutch _had_ left him. Maybe all of this was a farce. Remnants of loyalty for a man long gone. Was he wrong to protect Dutch, after everything? He swallowed against the tightness in his throat, finally mustering a voice that was weaker than he wanted.

“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

A weak rebuttal, he knew. But he had nothing else.

Ross knew it too. He stared hard at Arthur, features set in stone. “Way I hear tell it, he left you in the hands of a rival gang. Now, I might not be savvy to the incarcerate workings of petty thieves such as yourself, but even I would like to think that's some sort of misconduct, wouldn't you say?”

His lack of response seemed to fluster him, the man shifting where he stood. A sigh, heavy on his lips, though pursed by a smile. “How was Colm anyhow?”

“A charming host,” Arthur muttered, looking up at him. He was grateful for the simple fact that the details of his capture weren't known. He already felt vulnerable as it was. Instead he forced a smile, chasing away disturbing thoughts that were starting to pick away at him. “Why? You interested in him? Cause I ain't got no problem turning him over.”

“I'm interested in Dutch,” Ross didn't even hesitate.

“'N like I said, I ain't seen him,” Arthur repeated. A secret he had to hold, a secret he had to keep. If not for Dutch's sake, than for Hamish's. Cause not only would they tear that cabin apart to get to him, they'd take Hamish down for simply harboring him. A fate Arthur hadn't truly thought through. If he had, he'd found some other doleful place to dump the man off at.

“Still captivated, even after all that's happened. I suppose a couple of decades of blind loyalty can really mess with a man's mind. Though think on this, if you will; would _he_ refuse an offer like this? If he were sitting here, in this cell, would he spare any of you filth if it meant a slice of freedom for himself?”

The question hit him hard. He shifted, uncomfortably. Dutch, he knew, wouldn't be sitting here in this cell. The man was no fool, wouldn't have gone back for the others like he had. He would have kept going; would have gotten himself to safety first. Then, and only then, would he have started to make plans.

Yet the idea festered.

Burning and growing, budding into something new. Something dark and vile that set his bones aching. Dutch had sold him out once. He'd apologized, sure. An apology Arthur hadn't rightly accepted. Refused to accept. Wasn't sure if he could ever bring himself to do so-but it didn't mean he wanted the man dead.

Maybe it was blind loyalty. Maybe it was stupidity. Whatever it was, it held onto him fast, and he found his jaw clenched hard, unwilling and unable to answer. His resolute decision understood apparently, as Ross pushed away the from the bars, a sad shake of his head.

“No need to fret; we will find him, with or without your help. You've doomed yourself, Mr. Morgan. I'd like you to remind yourself _who_ exactly you are dying for when we string you up tomorrow.”

That twinge of fear was back; small and hardly noticed, worming its way through him. He was sure it'd be tenfold by the time the noose fell around his neck. Shit, there were so many ways for him to die, each one thought on briefly, entertained in the darkest moments of his life. Hanging had never been off the table, but neither had it been warmly embraced. He'd figured he'd go out by bullet, in the midst of a gunfight.

Maybe that was due to the many times he'd escaped the noose. Not like that was going to happen here; not this time. He looked up then, the heavy doors to the jail swinging open, hinges long worn and squeaking as someone pushed their way in. Catching the sight of the man, his heart sinking just then.

Just when he thought things couldn't get worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is an interesting question, don't you think? If Dutch was offered the same deal, would he have taken it? 
> 
> And I wonder who could have just joined the party. Someone from the gang, captured? Maybe intentionally? Or someone else entirely? Who knows! 
> 
> But, I will say thanks to each and every one of you for reading :) All your wonderful comments really make this story worth posting. I'll see you folk on Friday.
> 
> Take care!


	34. Micah

It was Micah.

Of course it was _fucking_ Micah. 

Who else would it be? The man, seemingly gloating in every step he took. A wide grin plastered on his face as he came up near them. He seemed to size Arthur up, scrutinizing him as though he were a fleck of dung that needed brushing off a pair of pants.

“So good to see you again, Morgan.”

“Ah, well I'd say the same, but I'd be lying,” Arthur bit back dryly. Out of all the people in the damn world to show up now, it just _had_ to be Micah. On a good day, before all of this shit had gone down, he disliked the man, but now? Now that dislike had grown into sheer, bitter hatred.

“Always a ray of sunshine, you are,” Micah rolled his eyes, coming to a stop near Ross. “Though it's funny, seeing you here; I don't remember inviting you to the party.”

“Well, I didn't realize it was exclusive.”

“Ah yes-I had almost forgotten on how you like to mosey your way onto jobs that aren't yours. I shouldn't have expected anything less, to be honest.”

“What?” he drawled, almost humorously. “Why Micah I ain't never took you for the jealous type.”

“As entertaining and wholesome as this reunion is, I'd like to get back to business. So unless you have something to contribute, Mr. Bell, I suggest you leave,” Ross was all too happy to cut them off. Seemingly put off by Micah's mere presence.

“Calm down, big man,” he reached into his pocket, fishing a piece of paper out, a grin on his face. “I'm still good on my word.”

“More letters?” Ross seemed unimpressed. A feat Arthur didn't think possible; he already knew the man's feelings on Micah, and his recent failures were no doubt burning holes in what little patience he had left. The man cleared his throat, throwing out the reminder. “You _promised_ us Van der Linde.”

“And you’ll get him, don’t get your panties in a twist,” Micah reassured him with a level of superiority that grated on everyone’s nerves. It was as though he were speaking to a child, “You got Morgan, didn’t you? And… well, you _had_ Matthews. Funny how he vanished out from under you just about the same time as Dutch…. right around the time the ol’ cowpoke her came back from the dead. Ain’t that interesting, now that I think about it. And here I was wondering how the hell you mighta known about the bank job— seems an awful coincidence, don’t it?”

Arthur rolled his eyes, “Everyone in this goddamned _state_ knew about the bank job. Hell, y’all made such a racket, I wouldn’t be surprised if they heard you all the way in New Austin. Sides, ain't like I need someone to tell me what y’all were planning—all I had to do was figure out what the dumbest, most borderline _suicidal_ plan would be, and follow you fools from there.”

It was something Hosea had taught him; a sense of humor tended to make things like this easier. It soothed the nerves, gave him something to focus on besides anger. Kept him from biting back and falling into their trap like a fool.

Still, confessions bubbled beneath the surface. How he’d heard them up north, chatting so flagrantly about all of this. If he slipped for a single moment, if he let loose any of that knowledge, he knew they’d be able to piece everything together. If they knew, they’d tear that town apart bit by bit until they found what they were looking for. Ross would stop at nothing; the man was more determined and bull-headed than Milton.

So Arthur would keep it together. He had to. If not for himself, than for Hosea.

“And surely it was mere coincidence all the ladies are gone from camp?” he wondered.

“I knew something was fixin,” Arthur pointed out, “didn't take much a stretch to figure out you were involved.”

“Be that as it may....," Micah hummed, watching him, "Here’s what I don’t get, Cowpoke… Here I had every damn one of you fooled and yet— yet you ain’t even seem surprised to see me. And if you’d known about this...arrangement, back in Van Horn, you’d’a put me down then and there, ain’t that right?”

He swallowed, losing himself for a moment. A thread of anxiety woven into his skin as he shivered. There was truth to that statement, a hint of some deeper understanding there. Micah seeing through his bluff, dancing around the edges of the truth. As though he were piecing together the puzzle and merely looking for the last few parts.

He couldn't let that happen. Couldn't give him the reason to speculate. To wonder. Arthur swallowed, forcing out what he hoped was gruffness. To cover that falter, that thread of truth.

“'N Bill and Javier would have done run me through. Though maybe it would have been worth it, seeing it'd get rid of you.”

It was weak-but he hoped it was enough. Let Micah think him a coward as long as he didn't speculate for too long. Hearing him laugh, that chuckle that sent shivers down his spine and turned his blood cold, was perhaps one of the better feelings he had of late. Watching as the man shook his head.

“You never were much a thinker.”

Arthur felt something ease, the tension fleeing as the man sought after new thoughts.

“Dutch never did have high hopes for you, you know? Reason why he let me step up, start calling the shots. Not too long after Colm nabbed you, in fact. He didn't even wait for your bed to grow cold-guess he was all too happy to have that weight off his shoulders. What with you looming like a dark cloud over his head all the time.”

He swallowed. Feeling a flurry of emotion at that. Wondering how much of it was true, how much of it was simply Micah goading him, prodding at wounds that hadn't yet healed. He told himself, tried to remind himself that it was surely nothing more than talk. That it shouldn't bother him.

But it did.

The assertion was surely nothing more than a falsity, and it echoed faintly in his ears. But even the most unsubstantiated bullshit had roots in the truth. A fact he couldn't ignore; something small, worming it's way in, reverberating through him. His own fears, his uncertainties growing. Manifesting.

He sucked in a breath. Tried to pull himself together. To shake away those awful thoughts. To gain some measure of control before he let anything damming slip.

“You mighta fooled the rest of them folks,” he finally mustered, his voice far more steady than he felt. “But I ain't never trusted you. All this here? Why, I'd be surprised if this wasn't you.”

A bluff he hoped was convincing. The smile that split his face was unreadable, Micah shuffling where he stood, seeking a more comfortable stance. “I am honored-truly, that you think so highly of me. But this here wasn't me; not this time. Nah, ol' Dutch and Hosea saw this one a mile away and latched onto it through desperation. Didn't even have to say a word; did that all on their own.”

Arthur reckoned that might be true. Though he doubted there was anyone who had objected to the idea, and no doubt Micah had been all too happy to scamper away to share the sordid details with the law. A failed endeavor before they even began.

“Regardless of the facts,” Ross cut in, having stayed silent through most of the exchange, “Milton was a fool to even agree to this _arrangement_ in the first place. The damage to the city alone will take weeks to repair, and we're still counting bodies -not to mention all the money we lost.”

“These problems aren't really my concern,” Micah sighed suddenly, as though he was bored. “I did my part, got all those fools trapped in the bank just like we planned-then cowpoke here shows up and puts a damper on all of that.”

“These problems, as you call it, could have been avoided had you just done what we asked and led us straight to them.”

“True as that might be, I was only doing what I could to protect you. If you rode in on them, holed up as they was, they'd massacre you. Saw it happen with those O'Driscolls,” Micah pointed out. Soothingly. A sickly tone to his voice as it grew soft, “You know I only want what's best for my...benefactors. We have a deal, agent-and I always deliver.”

He held the note up once more, indicating to it with a nod. The man watching in return, a scowl on his face as he reached out and snatched it from him. “Your concern is touching. What is this?”

“Like I said-I'm doing my part. See-once your fellas _grabbed_ me, I took the opportunity to return back to camp. I was going to round up the ladies there, feed them some bullshit story about needing help and bring them in as well, but imagine my surprise to see the place empty. Deserted,” he stressed, turning to look at Arthur.

There was something...strange, in his eyes. Something predatory-it set his nerves on end, and it was all Arthur could to to pretend not to care. Then Ross started to read, and he could feel his heart beat faster, his mouth suddenly gone dry.

“ _Dear Uncle Tacitus-”_

His heart, suddenly stopped. Forgetting for a moment how to breathe. A thousand thoughts racing through his head, all too slippery to hold. Because surely he wouldn't. He couldn't.

Yet why wouldn't he?

“Micah,” Arthur finally found his voice, growled out his name. As a warning? A plead? He wasn't quite sure, though it hardly mattered. He was fully ignored.

“This is-where did you get this?” Ross was curious, still reading, though silently now. Arthur could only imagine to what words they held. He watched as Micah turned towards him, that smugness still wrought on every feature of his.

“It was the only thing left waiting for me when I rode in. Imagine my surprise, coming into nothing-wondering where everyone might have scurried off to, only to find a map marked clear as day. I had to wonder how stupid they could be, but then again...women have never been capable of intelligible thoughts; ain't that right, Morgan?”

Grimshaw...she had promised to leave word. To nudge them in the right direction. Surely she wouldn't have-though apparently she had. The proof sitting in the agent's hand as he skimmed over the letter. A spark of something in the man's eye, and Arthur felt his gut turn cold as it hardened.

“Why are you doing this?” he breathed, incredulous. The man was dooming them to an undeserved fate; the rest of them, sure-they deserved being put in the ground, but the women? Jack?

What was there to gain from this? Surely Micah didn't believe the promise of immunity; he couldn’t be so stupid as to think he’d actually slip away from all of this unscathed. He was a fool for even thinking that was ever a possibility, a fact that Arthur hissed out between his teeth, as if a simple insult might open the bastard’s eyes. If one could ever negotiate with a snake.

The fact Micah laughed hardly unsettled him. That jagged cackle was all too familiar. A wide smile on his face as the man leaned forward, voice just as soft.

“Ain't nothing for you to worry about, sweetheart – I got it all covered.”

“Seems like they've scampered off to Lakay,” Ross announced-the man fully unaware of the previous comment, too lost in his own splendor to notice. “Surprisingly good work, Mr. Bell. Turns out you are good for something after all.”

“Your praise is overwhelming,” Micah bit back the sarcasm, but only just. Arthur had heard the fake mannerism one too many times to be fooled. Though Ross, he suspected, hadn't had much dealings with Micah face to face; he didn’t seem to pick up on Micah’s particular brand of bastard.

Interesting.

Arthur opted to watch, not allowing his features to betray his thoughts.

“And can you assure my men and I that Van der Linde will be there?”

“Oh sure, he's probably sitting with the rest of them, drinking tea,” Micah rolled his eyes, “You know he prefers to stay behind with the ladies.”

“If you’re lying— ” Ross was losing his patience, what little he had to begin with, and it showed in the tightness of his tone and the anger twisted into his face.

“Look, I don't know where the hell he is," Micah shook his head, backpedaling. "But I've been doing some thinking, trying to figure out how exactly Morgan found out about this— like I said, haven't seen him for weeks, and he shows up from the dead, right as rain? The way I see it, Dutch caught wind of Hosea, went to spring the ol' fool. Then sent this moron here to foul up our plans. So I know he knows. We just need to make him squeal. We'll find the both of them for sure.”

“Be as it may, unlike Milton, I prefer to keep my hands clean.”

“Oh, well, ain’t your hands that gotta be dirty. I sure don’t mind,” Micah offered with an easy grin.

Something dark billowed in Arthur’s stomach at the thought. He could take Micah in a fight; that idea played through his head over and over, as though it were soothing. But still, he thought of Hosea, tied down, restrained, defenseless… and Arthur roiled with nausea. Wondering if that would be his fate; or worse. He wouldn't put it past Micah.

He felt something hardening in his bones, his eyes snapping to where the man stood on the other side of the bars. He had to do something; there had to be some way out of this. A sneer on his face as he ground out:

“You might as well just go on and kill me, you and I both know I ain’t never gonna talk.”

“Oh, I disagree,” Micah called his bluff, something genuine and eerie.

“Morgan will hang tomorrow,” Ross interrupted, “for now, Mr. Bell, we have other business to attend to.”

“Oh no, partner, that's on you,” Micah responded, bitter and sharp, “You see, _I_ done just been caught by the law. Can't exactly show up unannounced-I mean, what would they think? We can’t go risking all that trust and _loyalty_ I worked so hard for.”

“I already told them,” Arthur barked, hoping he sounded menacing, even in the slightest, “They know what you are, what you done— they ever see your mug again, you can bet they’ll put a bullet in you quicker than you can blink.”

“Oh I'm sure you did,” Micah rolled his eyes, that same sneer back on his face, “just as sure that they believed every word you said. After all, they sure _believed_ you the first time, didn’t they?”

Arthur’s mouth snapped shut like a trap at that. There was truth in those words; a painful veracity to that statement that he hadn’t thought of until just then. He remembered his first return to camp, chased down and hunted like a dog, very nearly shot outside of Van Horn without a second thought. But things had changed? They’d reestablished some measure of trust— hadn’t they?

Or had they merely tolerated him; patronized him because the only other option was death. Had they simply humored him, pretending to believe him, to save their own hides?

Micah’s laugh broke through those thoughts, voice saccharine as he continued.

“Speaking of, how’s the leg? Bet you wished I aimed higher now, don’t you? Could have saved the both of us all this _fuss_ , but you know me-I love a good chase. I just wanted to see the look on your face when you realized your own _family_ was fixing to put you down. All them years spoiled cause they thought you _might_ be running with Colm.”

He stilled at those words, lost momentarily in his thoughts. He had, for a time, wondered which one of them it had been to actually hit him. Choosing to ignore the curiously prying thoughts simply because it hurt too much to delve too deep. It was easier to pretend-to act as though it had never happened in the first place. Learning the truth eased something in his gut, only just. It felt like he could breathe a little easier knowing it hadn't been by their hands, but by Micah's.

And surely he shouldn't be surprised. Not given all he'd learned in recent times. Though it still burned; the mention of how easily the others were swayed. Not just Dutch; Dutch was a downright fool, blinded by his own ignorance and spurred on by nothing more than ego. The rest of them; well he'd like to think they wouldn't have been swayed as easily, but he'd been wrong before. Salt all but rubbed deeper into his wounds as Micah went on. Prodding and poking at those insecurities that were bubbling to the surface.

“You know how easy it was to convince them you’d turned traitor? How willing they were to believe that you weren’t as high and mighty as you’d like to make us think? Why, Bill and Javier practically dragged _me_ along to go off and get you! Oh, cowpoke, and if your friend hadn’t shown up— if he hadn’t been there, we would have run you down then and there. Left your body out for buzzard food. You got lucky; though I suppose that's all about to change. You'll be be telling me everything; him included.”

“You ain’t gettin’ _shit_ outta me,” Arthur growled, trying to keep his voice firm. He had let his hat fall forward, obscuring his gaze, blocking the other from his vision as though it might give him a moment of sanctuary. A moment to gather his wits, to keep himself in check.

He needed to keep it together.

“I figure once I’m done with you, I’ll go pay him a visit and thank him proper for ruining a good saddle. Maybe return the favor. What do you think?”

He said nothing. Couldn't bring himself to say anything. The mere thought sending something sharp through him. Fear? Perhaps. The beginning inklings of something wrong creeping through him. Wrong in so many ways he couldn't even begin to explain.

It wasn't just Dutch.

Though there was little question in if the man deserved it. At the height of his rage, Arthur would happily sold him out. Swapped him out like one his rifles-a rusted ol' thing not even worth hanging above a fireplace. Now though-now that the rage had time to simmer, the fires long burnt out and leaving only smoldering embers in place, he wasn't so sure.

Worse was the feeling of that uncertainty. If he truly was protecting Dutch because he still cared, or rather if it was driven by something more petty. Something primal-the innate disdain towards failure, the inability to concede. His loss would be Micah's gain, and that was something he couldn't handle. If anything, it only gave him more drive, to take that secret with him to his grave. The one final thing he could do.

And that was only the start.

Because there was also Hamish.

Hamish who, for all his bluster, was still an old, one-legged man. Hamish, who had without question taken Arthur in without a thought to his identity, who had seen past his rough exterior and seemed to care for the man beneath. Hamish, a man so generous with his friendship, his home, and his time, that Arthur still hadn’t thought of a way to thank him for everything he’d done. For what he was still doing-a man who was all too earnest and thoroughly good to be made to suffer at Micah’s hands.

Because Micah would see a man like that and rip him to shreds without hesitation, and all for the crime of knowing Arthur. For harboring Dutch.

And that thought hurt worse. His thoughts were sudden and rapid, charging through him like a pack of wolves downing a frantic prey. His entire stature, frozen as the realization slowly sunk in him, stones settling at the bottom of a pond. Drowning in desperation. Wondering.

Wondering what in the hell he had gotten himself in to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning all!
> 
> So there were a lot of good and interesting guesses to what might happen and who it might be. And of course, it's Micah. Our dirty little rat has made a reappearance after his supposed capture and it turns out, unsurprisingly, that he's been working with them. A whole ass plan in the works that Arthur has ruined. 
> 
> I mean, Arthur did a good job there, but right now, things are looking, decidedly not great for him right now. 
> 
> Micah is a bastard, first and foremost, and for all time. He's got the upperhand here, though for how long is the true question. 
> 
> :)
> 
> See you all on Tuesday!


End file.
